


Human Remains

by Saziikins



Series: Human Remains [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Drug Use, F/M, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, References to Torture, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-17
Updated: 2014-09-08
Packaged: 2018-01-16 03:24:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 70
Words: 423,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1330114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saziikins/pseuds/Saziikins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Greg Lestrade met Mycroft Holmes for the first time he wasn't quite sure what to make of him. But nine years down the line, he could never have dreamed that this was where they were going to end up.</p><p>AKA: A slow-burn Mystrade, starting in 2005 and covering all three seasons of Sherlock.</p><p>As of 19/04/2016, I am going through this fic and reformatting it, so if you find some inconsistencies in formatting, that's why. I'm also trying to remove the typos and the unnecessary words and clunky phrases. It's a long story and it'll be a long process, so your patience is very much appreciated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Day Like Today

**Author's Note:**

> As of 19/04/2016, I am going through this fic and reformatting it, so if you find some inconsistencies in formatting, that's why. I'm also trying to remove the typos and the unnecessary words and clunky phrases. It's a long story and it'll be a long process, so your patience is very much appreciated. 
> 
> On 08/10/2014, I completed the second draft of this fic, but made a few tweaks to the plot: 
> 
> * Mycroft no longer offers Greg a cheque when they meet as I decided it was out of character for him to do so in the context of this fic.  
> * The chapter based around A Study In Pink now has fewer direct quotes from the show, as it should have been in the first place to be honest. Thanks to all those who commented on it at the time.  
> * Mycroft's comments about Bond Air have been changed a tiny amount because the line didn't fit canon.  
> * Janine's job explanation has changed slightly because it didn't fit canon.
> 
> Thanks to all those who read this as it was published, and I hope all those who stumble upon it now enjoy reading it as much as I adored writing it.

**February 2005.**

He stifled a yawn behind his hand. The Commander’s personal assistant continued to ignore him as she drank her tea, wrote a few words on her laptop, then drank her tea again.

Greg had arrived at New Scotland Yard at 4.36am. He was called in about a potential witness who had strolled into police headquarters about an arson Greg had been investigating. The witness had left by the time Greg arrived at work. He supposed he’d been a homeless man popping in for a warm place to sit while he pretended he had evidence about a case.

Greg didn’t see the point in trekking back home across London. Instead he poured himself a large mug of cheap coffee, munched down a packet of crisps and started going through his emails.

When the Commander’s personal assistant told him to report to his boss’ office at 1.30pm, he just about managed a polite response. The meeting was bound to be a waste of time. A simple ‘no, you haven’t got the job’ would have sufficed. It was now 1.43pm. The Commander’s timekeeping was as impeccable as always.

Greg slid his phone from his pocket, scrolling through his messages for the umpteenth time. The PA lifted her head. “Sergeant Lestrade?” she said.

Greg leaned forward in his chair. “Yes?”

“Five minutes,” she told him.

He forced a smile. “No worries.” He let out a long breath and checked his texts. There was one message from his wife asking him to pick up some milk on the way home.

His eyes skimmed over the wall of photographs of former police chiefs who had risen through the ranks. He recognised one or two of them. The rest all looked the same somehow. Confident and ever-so-slightly smug.

He turned his head when the Commander’s office door swung open, the handle smashing into the wall. Sergeant Carter stormed out. Greg frowned, following his colleague with his eyes.

The Commander caught Greg’s eye. “Sergeant Lestrade,” he announced to no one in particular. “Sorry to have kept you.”

“No problem, sir,” Greg replied. He winced as Sergeant Carter slammed another door shut further along the corridor. Greg followed the Commander into his bright office.

The Commander gestured to the chair. “Please, sit.”

Greg perched on the edge of the seat, hands folded in his lap.

The Commander ignored him for a minute as he checked his computer screen. He glanced at Greg through bored eyes. “Well, Sergeant Lestrade. I suppose after that demonstration from Sergeant Carter, you know why you’re here.”

“Not really, sir.”

“You’re promoted.” The Commander returned his attention to the computer. “Well done.” 

Greg gaped at him. “Sorry, sir?”

“We have decided to promote you to Detective Inspector. And no, it’s not because of Sergeant Carter's little performance.”

Greg clenched his fists for a second on his lap in silent victory. _Play it cool_ , he told himself. _Pretend to deserve this._ “Well. Thank you, sir,” he managed.

“No problem at all. Detective Inspector Lestrade.” Greg couldn’t help the grin that spread across his face. “You will start in the role in two weeks. Congratulations.” 

Greg shook the Commander’s hand. “Thank you, sir." He walked out in a daze. That had gone well. He wondered if he was better at interviews than he thought. But he couldn’t help but feel inexperienced.

And now the doubts were setting it. Oh God, what was he thinking? He’d taken the job as easily as he would have done his food shopping and now he was going to be a Detective Inspector and he had no idea what a Detective Inspector was supposed to do. Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade. Him. DI. Oh holy shit. Cigarette. He needed a cigarette. 

He made his way to the bike rack in the back of the car park He shivered, wishing he’d thought to wear his coat. PC Sally Donavon and PC Edmund Bullock were already there, laughing as they smoked. They were both wearing thick coats over their uniforms. 

“We heard,” Sally said, holding a cigarette out to him. Greg took it gratefully. “We think Carter's quit.” 

“What the hell happened?” Greg mumbled around the cigarette as he took the lighter from Edmund. 

“We don't know,” Sally said. “He stormed into our office, looked around, said 'fuck all of you' and left. So we guessed things had gone well for you.” She grinned. “Detective Inspector Lestrade.”

Greg took a drag, staring into space. He frowned at her. “I'm not sure what just happened. That was Carter's job. The Assistant Commander admitted I was only interviewing to make up the numbers.”

Edmund shrugged, stomping his cigarette into the ground. “Well. We like the result. That's what matters, right?”

Greg hummed and watched the smoke disappear into the air. “I’ll speak to Carter. Smooth it out with him. Can’t have him swearing all over the place.”

Sally laughed and patted Greg’s shoulder. “Spoken like a true Inspector,” she said. “See you round, sir.”

Greg watched the two constables joke together as they wandered back towards the main building, before texting his wife.

__**MESSAGES**   
14.06: Get drinks in!  
Got good news! xx

* * *

Caroline was stretched out along the dark green sofa when Greg returned to their flat. She held a beer in one hand, her mobile phone in the other. Her dark blonde hair was tied up into a messy bun on the top of her head. Greg put the milk in the fridge. He grinned at her, picking up the beer she had left for him. He ignored the empty glass she had set down beside it, sipping from the ice cold bottle instead.

“What’s your news?” she asked, smiling back at him as she muted the television.

“It’s news,” Greg said, leaning on the armrest. He spent a minute watching Dirty Den intimidate some poor 20-year-old brunette on Eastenders.

Caroline touched his arm with the tips of her toes. “Don’t hold back on me,” she said. “I had to clean up the mess after a teenage break-up this afternoon. I don’t have any patience left.”

“I got the job.”

Caroline stared. “You did what?”

“I got the job,” Greg repeated, beginning to grin. “The Detective Inspector job.”

Caroline quirked a bemused smile as she sipped her beer. She opened and closed her mouth. “Sorry, wait, what?” she asked. “The Inspector job you only did the interview for so the bosses knew you existed? That job?”

Greg continued to grin. 

She let out a stunned laugh. “But that’s. Oh, Greg. Greg, that’s, that’s brilliant.” She sat up on her knees, reaching out to tug him towards her. “You got the job.”

“I got the job.”

“I can’t believe you got the job. We need something so much better than beer for this!” She kissed him, brushing her hand through his wind-swept hair. It was about time they’d had some good news. He didn’t remember the last time she was so grateful he was home.

“The beer will do,” Greg said, slumping down on the sofa and changing the channel to Sky Sports. “The beer’s amazing.”

Caroline turned the microwave on to heat his dinner. “So what’s the pay rise?” she asked, taking a bottle of Prosecco out of the fridge. 

“About £6,000.”

Caroline slammed the fridge door closed. “Really? That much?”

“Yep,” Greg said, flicking through the football matches on offer. “We can try for kids if you want,” he added, turning to look at her. “But we can have that sparkly stuff first, if you’d prefer.”

Caroline laughed, eyes sparkling as she moved to sit on the armrest. “You need your dinner.”

“Then we try for babies?” Greg asked. That was what she wanted. He knew it was what she wanted. 

She kissed his eyebrow. “Then we try for babies. Detective Inspector.” Laughing, she got back to her feet and took his dinner out of the microwave. Greg kicked his shoes off.

“You need to stop smoking though,” she added. Greg bit the inside of his cheek. He would do what she wanted. Whatever it took to make her happy. 

* * *

**March 2005.**

Greg studied himself in the mirror, straightening his tie. In the reflection, he saw Caroline by the window as she got dressed. He smiled to himself, stepping back to try to see more of himself in the glass.

“Is this acceptable for a first day?” he asked, swiping his hand down the front of his shirt.

Caroline turned around, fastening her necklace. “You look great. You nervous?”

“No. Maybe. Only a little bit. I know the team, I know they like me. It’s just awkward with Carter, you know?”

“I’m amazed they convinced him to stay,” Caroline said, pulling some tights on under her skirt.

“I’m amazed they wanted him to stay to be honest,” Greg replied. He touched his blue tie again. “Is this trying too hard? I never wear a tie.”

Caroline rested her hands on hips from behind. He smelt her perfume, something sweet and floral. “Greg. Stop worrying. You’ve done this before. You know how it works.” She kissed the back of his neck. “And you’ll do great.”

He bit his lip. “Yeah. It’ll be great.”

He had a quick breakfast, finishing his slice of toast as he pulled his coat on. “Have a good day,” he called out through a mouthful.

Caroline smiled up at him from the sofa. “You too,” she said, switching BBC Breakfast on. 

* * *

“Donavon!”

Sally stuck her head around the door of Greg’s new office a few moments later. She frowned at him. “What?”

“Just seeing if it works,” Greg said, grinning.

Sally crossed her arms. “Don’t make a habit of it, sir. We don’t want to find out the story of the Inspector who cried wolf.” She smiled. “But enjoy your first day.”

“Enjoy your first day, indeed,” said the Chief Superintendent, walking into the office with a stack of files in his arms. “And I have a brilliant start for you.”

Greg eyed the paperwork. “What are these?”

“Documents to sign, old cases to consider refreshing,” the Chief Super said.

Greg frowned as the pile landed on his desk. “Why are we refreshing old cases?” he asked.

The Chief Super looked far too pleased with himself. “Because it’s your first day, and your first job is to see what your predecessor missed. Enjoy. Good day, PC Donovan.”

Sally stared at Greg and then down at his paperwork. “Well." She pulled a face. "Have fun with those, sir.”

“Donovan!”

She turned back to him. “What?” she asked. Shouting her name was never going to get old, Greg thought. Okay, maybe it would get old very quickly for her…

“Do you want to look at these files?” He took a few files from the top of the stack and started flicking through them. He pulled a face. Morgue pictures. Delightful.

She at least tried to appear sympathetic. “We’re off out on the beat, sir. Maybe later? Sorry.” Sally paused. And grinned. “Sort of sorry.”

Groaning, knowing he needed caffeine to get him through the morning, Greg started to pour himself a coffee. Some of the constables were packing their gear ready to go for a walk around London to keep an eye out for trouble. The machine gurgled and Greg stared as a thick mix of coffee and some other slush dropped into his mug. Brilliant. Just brilliant. And he needed a cigarette. Desperately. He stuck a nicotine patch on his arm and opened his emails, swearing as his computer crashed. 

One hour and 23 minutes later, he had signed the reports he needed to sign and was turning his attention to the other stack of files on his desk when Sergeant Carter appeared at his door.

They spent a few moments eyeing each other before Carter finally spoke, his voice gruff. “Got a call down by the Thames. A body.”

Greg put on his coat. “Then let’s get going.” 

* * *

Greg kept out of the way as the forensics experts went about their business. They were under a bridge, damp and dark, and a horrible place to die. Or to be dumped. Greg wasn’t ruling anything out, as he studied the dead man on the floor.

“Drug-taker,” the forensics expert muttered, pulling up the man’s sleeves. “I’d have to do some tests, but these are puncture marks on his arms. I bet they’re not just on his arms either. I hate to say it, Inspector, but this reminds me of a case I came across when I was doing my medical training.”

“What’s that?” Greg asked.

“If I can guess, sir? Strychnine poisoning. Rat poison,” he clarified. “The foam at the mouth, the clear lack of respiration.” The expert puffed up his cheeks. “Bad lot of drugs, sir. And if I could guess again, this poor bloke won’t be the only one. Terrible way to die.”

“So there’s more of these poor buggers out there?” Greg asked.

“Potentially. And with no idea they’ve got themselves some bad drugs. There’s no telling how much could be contaminated.” The expert shrugged, with the air of someone who stared the dead in the eye on a daily basis. “One dealer’s stash, or two dealers’ stashes… no idea. But there will be more. You can be dead within three hours of ingesting it. There's not much of a cure, even if you do realise quickly. And you _do_ have to realise quickly.”

“Let’s get him to Bart’s,” Greg said, trying not to think of the likelihood of more victims. “Do all the tests. Then we’ll have a better idea of what we’re looking for.”

Greg called his contacts in the mortuary at Bart’s, warning them of the body coming in. He told them he wanted a quick identification and an even quicker confirmation of cause of death, because there could be more out there. 

* * *

He tore off his tie when he got home that evening. He had poured coffee on it. He decided to never wear a tie to work again. What was the point? Sally and Edmund didn’t treat him any differently anyway.

* * *

The next few weeks were uneventful. The tests from Bart’s confirmed the man had strychnine poisoning and Greg spent several long nights lying awake imagining drug-users all over London falling dead in a horrific fashion.

As it was, he didn’t hear of another incident.

The death had received some media attention – of course it had – but since there were no other bodies, the press had written it off as a one-off. It had been drugs though. Heroin, most likely, mixed with strychnine.

The man had still not been identified. Greg had his team running searches of known missing people from that area of London, before widening the search to the whole of the South East. He had spoken to several homeless people, none of whom admitted to knowing the man.

It appeared as though he was a homeless drug user, with no family who cared for him. There were no DNA matches on the police database, no images on the missing person database, no evidence anyone living homeless in the area had any idea of who he was.

Greg had even rung up a known drug dealer for a favour, but he was told he’d never seen him before either.

He knew the ten main symptoms of rat poison by heart now, and every time he had been on the street he had been keeping an eye out for them.

_ Muscle twitching. _

_ Stiffness of the body. _

_ Lockjaw. _

_ Frothing of the mouth. _

_ Respiratory failure. _

_ Eyeballs protruding, pupils enlarging. _

_ Blue colouration of the skin. _

The first 15-30 minutes were critical, he knew that now. He imagined these people knew what they expected to feel when they injected the heroin into their bloodstream. He imagined this long-term drug-user had felt what he expected at first. Then the twitching would have started. Perhaps he wouldn’t have noticed straight away. But when it got worse, he would have noticed.

When did he realise when he was going to die? When did the fear start? When the convulsions began, was he conscious? Was he even capable of shouting for help? That kind of thinking had plagued Greg throughout his career.

Seeing bodies never got easier. He knew cops who dehumanised every body they saw. He knew even fewer who cared a bit too much. Greg liked to think he had found a perfect balance, but deep down he suspected the eyes of the dead would always haunt him.

The crimes he never solved were the worst. It was 19 months into his role as a Police Constable when he came across a case they could not solve. It had been an eight-year-old boy. He was in the foster care system, and that somehow made it worse. And every body Greg found with no name, no one who cared, and no likely suspect, reminded him of that kid.

But when no more bodies with evidence of ingesting rat poison showed up, Greg began to relax. They opened cases and a few closed with little fuss. He got used to the rhythm of his new job. 

Though he did start smoking again.


	2. Line Of Fire

**March 2005.**

He was finishing work early. Early for him, anyway. It was gone 7pm, and he had signed various reports and told PC Donovan it was time for her to go home too. Of course, the the phone rang the moment he had one foot out the door. For a second, he contemplated not answering. But he gave in, switching the light back on with his elbow as he answered.

“There are two bodies,” the officer explained. “It looks like strychnine poisoning.”

Greg groaned and grabbed his coat. “You’re actually kidding me.”

“Are you coming?”

“Yeah, I’ll be over there in about 20 minutes.”

With a sigh, he text his wife.

 **MESSAGES**  
19.19: Got to work late.  
Sorry. xx

 **MESSAGES Caroline Lestrade**  
19.21: Surprise surprise.  
Dinner in the microwave when  
you finally get in. Hope it doesnt  
take 2 long xxx

 **MESSAGES  
** 19.24: You and me both. xx

Arriving at the scene, holding his coat over his head to try and keep his face dry, he strolled down the alleyway. “What have we got?” he asked, putting on a forensics coat and gloves and ducking under the flimsy plastic barriers.

“Two bodies. Male and a female. Blueish skin, foaming at the mouth.”

“Any signs they were moved here?” Greg asked the forensics guys.

“Hard to tell in this weather, sir. Looks like they’ve not been here long. They were found by a PCSO half an hour ago.”

Greg frowned. “Can you confirm if its stry-whatever. The rat poison?”

“I wouldn’t want to make any assumptions. I mean, I suppose the symptoms are pretty obvious. I wouldn’t want to guess, but we were expecting more bodies any time, sir. Sir?”

Greg heard him, but his attention was fixed on two men in the shadows further down the alley. Their hands were outstretched as they shared something between them. Drug deal. Greg’s eyes flicked between the two. The one on the right was shorter and reaching into his pockets. The one on the left was taller wearing a long coat with the collar turned up.

“Keep talking,” Greg told the forensics expert, stepping over one of the bodies to get a better look.

“Uh. Well. Rat poison seems pretty likely, going on what happened the other week,” the expert continued. “But I don’t want to assume…”

The men made to leave and Greg picked up the pace. He gestured to Donovan and lowered his voice. “Donovan, you’re with me, man on the right. Bullock, Carter, man on the left.” They acknowledged the instructions and then Greg saw the men snap their faces towards them, ready to make a getaway.

“Stop - police!” Greg yelled, before breaking into a jog and then a brisker run. He heard the footsteps behind him as the PCs and Carter joined the charge, both splitting up to target different men.

He made ground on one man - the tall one, with the long coat - but he seemed to have an uncanny knack of turning round bends and around the traffic in a way Greg couldn’t clock fast enough. He may have been the one chasing, but the man seemed to know corners were coming up before Greg had even seen them.

Greg knew he wasn’t as fit as he once was, but the suspect began to slow as he limped on his left leg. Greg continued to give chase.

He heard Donovan behind him, radioing for back-up, and he thought he heard Carter’s voice too. His feet pounded on the ground, and when he turned the corner and found the man struggling in Carter’s arms, Greg took a few moments to catch his breath.

He wiped the rain water and sweat from his brow.

Carter was trying to get the man’s name, but the tall man with the long coat didn’t answer.

“I won’t run,” the suspect panted and Greg took a proper look at him. He was a skinny, pale bloke, with dark curly hair. His black coat was missing a couple of buttons. His expression was unreadable.

Greg held up his badge while Carter searched for concealed weapons or drugs. “I’m Detective Inspector Lestrade for the Metropolitan Police. And I’m not arresting you.” Yet, he thought, thinking back to the scene which had looked very much like a drug deal. “But you were down that alleyway at the same time as the bodies, and I want to know what you know.”

The suspect raised his eyebrows. “Far more than you,” he said.

Greg reached for his radio. “Can you send a car round to uh…” Greg looked around to get his bearings.

“North Street,” the man muttered, rolling his eyes.

“North Street,” Greg repeated. “I’ve got a witness I want to take in. Get the bodies to Bart’s-”

“-How did they die?” the suspect interrupted.

“-When you can,” Greg continued, ignoring him. “I want forensics reports sent to me as soon as you’ve got them. And sweep the whole area, I want you to confirm to me they were moved there. Make it a priority.”

“What happened?” the man asked. “The bodies?”

“We’ll talk about this at the station,” Greg said.

“How many?”

“We’ll talk about it at the station.”

The man huffed again. “Boring,” he muttered.

“It won’t be so boring if I find you’re carrying. Looked like you had a good deal going on at the end of that alley.” The man’s eyes bored into him. “What’s your name?” Greg asked.

The man continued to stare and Greg rolled his eyes. “Fine. Don’t talk. I’ve got all night.”

“I imagine your wife won’t be very impressed,” the suspect retorted, with the beginnings of a smug smile on the corner of his lips.

Like she ever was, Greg thought, as the police car arrived. “Get in,” he growled, before getting in beside Sergeant Carter.

 **MESSAGES**  
21.09: It’s going to be  
a long one. Sleep well xx

 **MESSAGES Caroline Lestrade**  
21.11: Though so. C U  
2moz. Xxx

The suspect remained silent during the journey, not even complaining when Greg walked into the interview room 45 minutes later. He was sat down, hands flat on the table as he fixed Greg with an expectant stare. Greg noticed at the track marks on the suspect’s right arm. He seemed remarkably coherent.

“Right,” Greg said, taking a seat opposite. “We haven’t found any drugs or loads of money on you, so you’re not being arrested or charged with anything. But you are here as a witness. And if you muck me around, I don’t have a problem finding a reason to put you in a cell overnight.”

The man yawned. “I know all this,” he said. “What time is it?”

Greg looked at his watch. “9.47pm.”

“Your wife will be wondering why you’re back so late.” The suspect pulled a face. “No she won’t. You do this all the time. Find excuses not to leave work, even when you could be putting an alleged witness into a cell overnight. How did they die?”

“I’m asking you the questions. Did you see the bodies?”

“No. I didn’t. How long had they been there?”

“How many times do you go to that alleyway in a week?”

“That was my first time. Two bodies, in the same alleyway at the same time,” the man mused, making a steeple with his hands under his chin. “Interesting. There is a building overlooking it but the chances of them both dying from a fall of that height is pretty remote. And you didn’t ask the forensics team to collect the parts. You said the bodies. So they are mostly intact. Not jumpers then.”

The witness/suspect fell silent for a minute. When Greg opened his mouth to speak, a flood of words fell from the suspect's lips. “So, two bodies, in the same alley at the same time, probably moved there and put there by someone," the suspect said. "At least, _you_ think so. Not dumped in a bin, so they were in the open, someone wanted them seen. It was a dry day today, above freezing, so the smell hadn’t attracted attention during the day or you would have known about them earlier. So, dumped there tonight. In the open. Why would they want them to be seen? Is someone sending a message? Left in the rain... It's more difficult to follow the tracks. That part of London is all run-down flats, unlikely to have much in the way of CCTV… It’s difficult to find out who dumped them there, and that person knew that… How am I doing?" 

Greg stared. “Do you always talk that fast?” was the first thing he asked.

The man frowned. “Oh. You already figured all of that out.”

“I’m an Inspector. I’m paid to do that.”

“What did they look like?”

“What?”

“The bodies, Detective Inspector, keep up,” the man snapped. “What did they look like? How long had they been there?”

“We haven’t had the forensics back,” Greg said.

“Forget forensics, they’ll only confirm what you know already. Any signs of blunt trauma? Blow to the head, stabbing?”

“No.”

“What did they look like?”

“Blue. Frothing at the mouth.”

A slow, knowing smile spread over the man’s face. “Rat poison. That’s what you think it is. You’re probably right, you were expecting more to turn up after the first one. But why two, in the same place at the same time, both moved there? And why haven’t there been more? There are more than three drug-users in that part of London and a dealer would serve more than three people.” The man’s eyes widened. “Ah! This wasn’t a bad lot of heroin given to whoever bought it. These were selected. They were given it on purpose. _Oh_ , it is interesting.”

“Hang on.” Greg pointed at him. “How do you decide they were selected… No, hang on, this isn’t how this works. I’m asking you questions. What’s your name?”

The man sighed. “Irrelevant. You don’t need me for your investigation.” He began to recite in a bored voice: “No I haven’t been to that alleyway before, yes I was talking to a drug dealer, no I did not buy drugs, and you know that because there were no drugs on me, no I did not kill them and you know already I am completely unrelated to this case. I was simply in the alleyway when you were.”

“Buying drugs,” Greg repeated.

“Did I have enough money in my coat, Detective Inspector, to purchase drugs?”

“No. But you were talking to a drug dealer.”

“I take drugs,” the man said, with no sense of shame. “They clear my head. I am not a drug addict. But since there was nothing on my person, you can’t charge me with possession.”

“I could search your home.”

“Search all you like.”

“Seriously? What’s the address?” The man told him. Greg gestured to the glass behind the man’s chair to get an officer to follow that up. “And what’s your name?”

“Mycroft Holmes,” the man replied, a little too quickly. Greg narrowed his eyes. He wasn’t sure he believed him. “This has been a very strange interrogation, Inspector.”

“Agreed,” Greg said. “It’s late.”

“Indeed,” Holmes said.

“What sort of name is Mycroft?”

“What sort of surname is Lestrade? It’s not your birth name.”

Greg hesitated. “What? How did you know that?”

The man sighed. “When I asked for the time, you gave it to me to the minute. You’ve kept time all your life. So, you were brought up in a regimented environment. A children’s home then, perhaps? I suppose a boarding school is possible, but judging by the shirt and lack of tie, you’ve not grown up somewhere you were forced to dress well.”

Greg glared, but the man continued speaking.

“You linger over saying your last name. You didn’t have it all your life. Taking into account your accent, your clear knowledge of London, ignoring the fact you clearly don’t know road names, and the fact that you don’t speak as though you’ve ever grown up in a French-speaking home - and your surname is so obviously French - Lestrade is not your natural birth name. Was I wrong?”

“No,” Greg conceded, standing up. He didn’t think he was that easy to read. But he couldn’t be bothered to argue right now. “An officer is conducting a search at your home now. Once that’s complete, you can go. If they don’t find anything.”

The man smiled. It didn't reach his eyes. “One more thing. The rat poison. In what dosage was it in the first man?”

“Worried about your own drugs now, are you?” Greg asked coolly.

The man folded his arms. “Very well. I won’t give you my magnificent insight into your case.”

“Good,” Greg said as he turned to leave, relishing in the flash of surprise across the man’s face before he closed the door.

* * *

Greg got home at 12.12am, kicking off his shoes and checking his phone. He hesitated as he considered texting his dad. He didn’t do it often. He knew he should, but it wasn’t as though he seemed to notice whether Greg text him or not. Greg wasn’t even sure he had the right mobile number anymore.

It would have been different if his adopted mother was still alive, but she wasn’t. The old man was probably just fine. The last time Greg had sent him a message was when he told him he had been promoted. His father liked to know when he achieved things. In fact, between Greg’s mother and his work, that was all his dad did seem to care about.

Deciding not to give it another thought, Greg tiptoed into the bedroom and started pulling his clothes off. Caroline murmured a ‘good evening’ and Greg slipped into bed beside her. He kissed her head.

“Test was negative,” she whispered.

Greg swallowed. “I’m sorry,” he said, biting his lip.

Caroline rolled over to look at him. “We missed the time frame anyway. You were working so… missed ovulating time and all.”

“I’m sorry again,” Greg said, trying to keep his eyes open. Caroline sighed. He wrenched his eyes open to look at her. Now his eyes had adjusted to the dark, he saw the mascara down her right cheek. He reached out to touch it, but she yanked her head back. “Caz…”

“It’s okay,” she said. She pressed her lips together. “Not like we’ve not been here before. Sleep.”

She rolled back over to her side. Greg considered reaching for her to touch her shoulder. He remembered the last time they’d had this conversation and she’d told him to stop touching her.

So he rolled onto his back and fell straight to sleep.

* * *

Arriving into work the next day, Greg was disappointed - though not at all surprised - to find the forensic reports not on his desk. It was also a disappointment to discover Holmes’ flat hadn’t turned up any drugs. There was - the drug squad’s report said - a disturbing smell and clear signs of drug-taking but nothing which could lead to an arrest or any charges.

Greg wandered through to the department’s main office, eyeing the whiteboard to see which investigations were ongoing. He scribbled a note in the bottom corner in blue pen. ‘Murders? Rat poison. Three dead’. Mumbling to no one in particular he said aloud “and someone moved the bodies.”

“What’s happening, sir?” Sally asked, handing him a coffee. She looked at the board. “When did it get upgraded to murder?”

“It hasn’t,” Greg said. “But I’m not ruling anything out. The bodies were moved there, I’m sure. I need the forensics to confirm but…”

Sally rolled her eyes. “Don’t give us more work, boss. We’re weighed under as it is without you telling us we have a serial killer to deal with.”

Greg grimaced. Something told him he was right about this… “Guess we’ll find out more when the forensics come through,” he muttered.

* * *

**April 2005.**

He knew something serious had happened as soon as the Chief Superintendent marched into his office. “Lestrade. You still working on that rat poison case?”

“Yeah. What happened?”

“Three bodies.”

“Three?” Greg asked.

“All in the same place, looks like they’ve been moved there.”

Greg pulled his coat on. “What are you thinking, sir?” he asked.

“After the first body? I was expecting more. Poisoned drugs, chances were there would be more. But there weren’t for what, two weeks? Three weeks after that and we’ve got three bodies. What are the chances? This isn’t just a bad stash.”

“I thought that when we found the last two. Or at least…” That man did, Greg thought. Holmes. “Never mind. I’ll get a team together, head out there. I want the best forensics we’ve got on this one, sir. I need a proper sweep of the area.”

The Chief Super nodded. “You’ll get it.”

“Thank you.” Greg wrapped his scarf around his neck. He paused. “Boss?”

“Yes?”

“What do you think we’re dealing with?”

“If these are the same as the others? Why would a drug dealer poison his own clients?”

Greg downed the rest of his lukewarm coffee. “That was exactly what I was wondering.”

“Solve this, Lestrade. This is your first big one.”

He left the office and Greg let out a long breath.

* * *

He couldn’t mask his look of disgust when he walked into the room. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered.

The forensics expert looked up from the floor. “Help yourself to a mask, if you want.”

Greg studied the bodies. They been chained to the large steel pipe and left to die in their own vomit and urine. “When the Chief said they’d been moved here…”

“Trapped here. And left to die,” the expert said.

Greg stared. “They look like the others. The skin and the mouth…”

The forensics expert hummed his agreement. “I signed off on those files. And I agree with you. Obviously we have to-”

“-Do some tests, yes, I know.” Greg put the protective kit on, opting not to put on a mask. He crouched down next to one of the bodies. “Looks like signs of heroin use to me. Track marks.” He frowned. “The first body, it just looked like he’d done done bad drugs and ended up there. The second two, like their bodies had been moved after they died. But this… someone did this to them. On purpose. Is there anyway of knowing how long they’ve been here? Were they moved before or after they’d ingested the poison?”

“Not easy to tell yet, sir. We’re doing a full sweep of the whole house.”

Greg peered closer to the wrists of the dead woman, her lank hair over her face. They were bruised, bloody. He winced. “She fought against these cuffs. She’s cut her right wrist deep. This is bloody torture.”

He exchanged a look with Sally. She could hardly look at the bodies. “Get this all photographed,” Greg said. “I want detailed pictures of everything.” He looked out the window. “The bridge is about a 20 minute walk from here. Alleyway a good half hour in the other direction.” He crossed his arms, trying to piece it all together.

“Sir?” Sally asked.

“Yeah?”

“This is probably the most horrible crime scene I’ve ever seen,” she said.

It’s not mine, Greg thought. He thought he should comfort her, and tell her it would be the worst she’d ever see. It was almost certainly a lie. So he didn’t bother. He reached for his phone. “If you find anything, _anything_ , you don’t expect to find, call me straight away.” Taking one last look at the bodies - those poor fucking people - he turned and left.

He leaned against a tree outside, breathing in the cold air. He couldn’t help but feel out of his depth.

* * *

That night, he couldn’t get the image out of his head. He showered as soon as he got home, and Caroline didn’t ask him about his day. She’d seen that mood too many times, Greg guessed. She poured him an ice cold beer, gave him a bowl of spaghetti, kissed the top of his head and left him with the football while she stretched out along the sofa, listening to music and reading a book.

He hardly watched the game as he tried to piece the scene back together in his head. He was pretty sure the victims wouldn’t be identifiable. At least not without asking every person in London, and even then there was no guarantee of a certain ID.

Caroline went to bed at 11.01pm. She told him not to stay up too late.

Greg stayed in the same chair, ignoring the nagging pain in his back from sitting in the same position for too long.

At 11.35pm, he moved and grabbed the newspaper from the side, turning to the crossword. He sat there until 12.03am, when he thought he’d finally cleared his head of the case.

* * *

The forensics had been rushed through, and Greg was glad for that when he got to his desk at 6.01am, a coffee in hand. He had never been so grateful towards his Chief for getting this work onto his desk so swiftly. He laid the toxicology and postmortem reports out in front of him.

_Name: John Doe._   
_Age: Approx 35._   
_Address: Unknown._   
_Probable cause of death: Respiratory failure. Likely cause strychnine poisoning._

_Name: Jane Doe._   
_Age: Approx 29._   
_Address: Unknown._   
_Probable cause of death: Respiratory failure. Likely cause strychnine poisoning._

_Name: Mark Scott._   
_Age: 33._   
_Address: Unknown._   
_Probable cause of death: Respiratory failure. Likely cause strychnine poisoning._

They had a name.

Greg stared at the piece of paper. “Donovan!” he shouted before remembering she - along with the rest of the team - wouldn’t be there yet.

They had a name. Mark Scott.

Greg started going through the documents. Mark Scott’s DNA was on the police database. He had been arrested, charged and convicted three years ago for trespass and burglary. Six months before that, he’d been charged for being drunk and disorderly. The list went on covering the past eight years. They had a name. He fired up his computer while he sifted through the papers. All of Mark Scott's charges read with ‘no fixed abode’.

But with a name and convictions, Greg knew he could follow the story of the man’s life to how he ended up chained to a pipe, poisoned and putrid.

So he was chained first, Greg thought for a second, trying to analyse how he had ordered the sequence of events in his head. Whoever transported them there wouldn’t want the evidence all over their vehicle. Unless they were lured there. Drug deal?

He went back to the case.

_John Doe One tested positive for heroin and strychnine._

_Jane Doe tested positive for heroin and strychnine._

_Mark Scott tested positive for strychnine but only a minute amount of heroin._

Greg hadn’t realised how much he had hunched over the paperwork until he sat up when Sally knocked on the door. He winced and rolled his shoulders. “Morning, Donovan.” He heard his neck crack. Judging by the face Sally pulled, so did she.

“Remember what they say at health and safety training. Straight back, move around every half an hour…” she intoned.

“Shut up, Donovan,” Greg replied gruffly.

“I heard you got the paperwork?” she asked.

“Yeah, we’ve got some things to go on. We’re going to have a meeting in 20 minutes, I just need to finish looking at these charge sheets.”

Sally handed him a coffee. “I’ll let them know.” She walked out, leaving Greg to turn back to his computer.

He visited the local newspaper’s website and saw the story at the top of the page. And here it was. His first big case as Detective Inspector.

_THREE bodies have been found by police in an abandoned house in Lower Sloane Street._   
_The bodies of two men and a woman were discovered by the Metropolitan Police at around 5pm yesterday._   
_The Herald understands the bodies were chained to a drain pipe, and are believed to be linked to three other deaths in the past month._   
_The first body, a male found on March 2 in Upper Thames Street, has yet to have been identified._   
_Two further bodies were discovered in an alley way off East India Dock Road on March 17._   
_A spokesman for the Metropolitan Police said: “Officers were called to a house in Lower Sloane Street at around 5pm._   
_“There, they discovered three bodies, two men and a woman. The discoveries are being treated as suspicious. An investigation is ongoing._   
_“We are continuing with our enquiries and urge anyone with any information on any of these crimes to contact us on the non-emergency number 101 citing crime reference number 1703/05.”_

Oh please don’t muck this up, Greg thought, wincing as he burnt his tongue on the coffee.

* * *

He met with his team and told them they had never dealt with a case like this before. He urged them not to let it get to the stage where they would find more bodies.

Mark Scott was a brilliant lead, he said. Maybe the killer, because they knew it was a killer now, had made a mistake. Five out of six bodies were Jane and John Does, but not this one. This one had a name and a past, and he was traceable. They could work with that, he said. They needed to get around the known drug haunts and interview people.

Jobs assigned, the team started look through paperwork and chase their leads.

Greg was on his way back to the office when he was stopped by the PC on reception. “There’s a man who says he has some information for your case. Do you want to see him now?”

“Which case?” Greg asked.

“The rat poison one.”

Greg blinked. “Sure, bring into my office.”

Greg nibbled on a biscuit and checked his emails while he waited. The knock on the door came, but the man who opened it was not someone he was expecting.

“Holmes,” Greg said, surprised. “So, what’s the information? Remembered something?”

“You have more bodies,” Holmes said.

Greg scoffed. “I’m aware. Read the news, did you?”

“The killer made a mistake. You _do_ know there’s a killer involved now, don’t you?”

“Yes, I’m not an idiot,” Greg said.

Holmes raised his eyebrows. “Weeeell…” he started.

Greg pointed at him. “Don’t. If you’re not going to say anything useful you can go and I can get on with my day. What mistake?”

“The house,” Holmes replied.

Greg frowned. “The house?”

“Abandoned. For about six months.” Holmes wrinkled his nose. “If I give you information, do you pay me?”

“This isn’t some American police drama,” Greg said.

“What do you mean?” Holmes asked. "What do they do in American police dramas?"

Greg stared. “What? Have you seriously never seen-”

“-Oh forget it, you don’t see it.” Holmes flung his arms in the air. “How can you not see it?”

“See what exactly?” Greg asked, checking his watch.

“The house! The _house_. Honestly, and you’re supposed to be the police.”

“We are the police. Just tell me what you’re going on about.”

“The house,” Holmes repeated. Greg raised his eyebrows and began to stand up. “Alright, alright!” Holmes held his hands up. “You expected to find something, didn’t you? Something unusual?”

Greg settled back in his chair. “What are you getting at?” he asked, remembering all too clearly asking the forensics man to tell him if anything unusual cropped up. Weird, that. Greg wasn’t even sure why he’d said it.

“First, tell me about the bodies. Not the new ones, the second and third ones.”

Greg shrugged. He hesitated. This broke protocol. And yet, and yet… “Two bodies in an alleyway. John Does, both of them. In about their 30s, no fixed abode, no obvious way of getting them identified. They weren’t on the police database. Both drug users, both killed by respiratory failure caused by rat poison.”

“And how much heroin?”

“It all indicated long-term use of heroin.”

“And the bodies in the house?” Holmes asked.

“All the same.” Greg frowned. No. It wasn’t all the same. “Except the victim with a name.”

Holmes began to smile. “You see it.”

Greg tilted his head. Did he? “They weren’t… drug users. Or at least, one of them wasn’t.”

Holmes rose to his feet. “Very good.”

“Wait. How did you know? And why did you keep saying ‘the house’?”

“I used my brain." Holmes paused. “I’ve lived in this area for six months, and I know the dealers and I know the homeless people in that area. I asked the right questions.”

“And they are?” Greg asked.

“There’s no point showing them pictures and asking if they’ve seen them. They don’t have loyalty to them, they don’t owe them anything. Ask them who is missing. Because they notice the ones who are missing. Maybe it means there’s one less person stealing that good spot under the bridge, or they’ve taken their spare coats and blankets. Ask who’s missing.”

“Holmes. You said the house. What about it?”

Holmes raised his eyebrows. “Really, Detective Inspector?”

Greg sighed. “Come on. Don’t leave me hanging now.”

“Those people could have been there for months before anyone noticed. They weren’t. Maybe you should start working out who contacted you about the three dead bodies in the first place.”

And with that, Holmes swept from his office.

* * *

Several hours later, Greg wasn’t shocked to find out it had been an anonymous tip-off. The call’s location was untraceable.

Greg's blood ran cold as he realised what they were up against. The killer wanted the bodies found.


	3. Mermaid Blues

**May 2005.**

Greg lit a cigarette by the bike rack, trying to duck underneath it to shield his head from the rain. A few officers were milling around the car park, talking. And sauntering right towards him, eyes fixed on his face, was that man again.

“Holmes,” Greg said as he stalked closer. Holmes had found a new, long grey coat. He stretched out his hand, and Greg handed him a cigarette and a lighter. Greg took a drag of his own cigarette. “What brings you here?”

“I was wondering if you’d found out anything new,” Holmes said, lighting his cigarette.

“We’ve hit a dead-end. It’s been five weeks with no new information.”

A gleeful smile spread over Holmes’ face. “I expect I could find you a new lead.”

Greg huffed a laugh. “You’re not getting anywhere near my files.”

“Pity.”

Greg wasn’t sure why he continued to entertain this man. Since he had wandered into his office and left as though he had a God-given right to be there in the first place, he regularly appeared at New Scotland Yard. He hadn’t entered the building since that day, but seemed to know when Greg would be out having a cigarette. Then again, Greg thought, checking his watch, he was fairly consistent with his smoking breaks.

“We’ve got a new case,” Greg blurted out before he thought it through. Holmes’ eyes lit up. “Nothing major. Don’t get excited. And I don’t know how much I’m going to share with you yet.”

“But you are going to share something? Interesting. What haven’t you been able to work out?”

“It’s a burglary case,” Greg said. “We have fingerprints, the same ones, at three buildings in London.” He held his hand up. “No, I’m not telling you where. No CCTV images, no witnesses, no neighbours hearing or seeing anything. Not much has been stolen, either. A few pieces of jewellery, some cash here and there. But these are posh houses. Not easily broken into. And whoever it is doesn’t seem that worried about leaving his fingerprints everywhere.”

Holmes pursed his lips. “That’s all you’re going to tell me?”

“Yep.”

Holmes pursed his lips. “They weren’t especially interested in the jewellery or money or they would have taken more. They were looking for something specific. But they don’t know where it is. So something connects these three houses, or the people who live there. A club or society… you haven’t given me much to go on. Someone who knows the security measures, knows how to get around it, moving in plain sight. A cleaner who works at all three properties, a workman, a window cleaner. No, not a window cleaner, who lets a window cleaner into their house? A workman.”

“A common link,” Greg agreed, thoughtful. He stamped his cigarette out. “Got to get back to work.”

“Do I still not get money for my tips?” Holmes asked.

“Depends.”

“On what?”

Greg snorted to himself and walked away. “If it leads anywhere,” he called back. 

Three days later, and he found himself handing Holmes an envelope. “Don’t spend it all on drugs,” he warned, “or I won’t do this again.”

“You found your burglar,” Holmes realised, his face lighting up. “Was it a workman? Cleaner? Wait, let me guess. Oh, definitely a workman.”

“An electrician.”

“What was he looking for?” Holmes asked, opening the envelope and raising an eyebrow when he looked in it and counted the money.

“Oi, don’t be ungrateful,” Greg said. “Files. Any kinds of files he could use for bribery. Lucky for the owners, they all keep their important documents safe. What are you going to spend that on?”

“Not drugs. You’ve hardly given me enough to get anything decent.”

Greg rolled his eyes. “Buy some food for God’s sake. You look like you’ve lost weight since the last time I saw you.”

“Food. Boring.” 

“Just do it. Or I won’t pay you again.”

“Does that mean you’ll tell me when you have a case?”

“Maybe.”

Holmes’ eyes lit up. “Give me your phone,” he said.

“What?”

“Give me your phone.” Eyeing him, Greg handed it over, and watched as Holmes typed into it. “There. My number. And now you can tell me when you have a case. And if I’m available, I will solve it for you.” He spun around and away.

“Don’t spend it on drugs!” Greg called out after him. 

* * *

It started with the car. Greg recognised the vehicle as soon as he saw it.

He’d seen it at least seven times in the past three weeks and it had stood out in his mind every time. There were not many of that type - and that shiny - in the parts of London he worked in.

He put it out of his mind, though, when Holmes started investigating the crime scene. Greg and his team had already pulled as much information as he thought they would get, but he decided to give Holmes a chance before he returned to the Yard.

Holmes had turned up out of the blue at a few of Greg’s crime scenes in the past few weeks. Greg wasn’t sure if he’d somehow hacked into the computer system or his phone or something, but he seemed to instinctively know when there was a case worth seeing. Not that Greg’s team were particularly enamoured with their new shadow. Holmes was bloody lucky he hadn’t encountered Sally yet. She hadn’t met him, but the stories she’d heard from fellow officers gave her enough cause to despise him.

None of the cases had been on Holmes’ ‘intellectual level’, so the man claimed. No murders, no kidnappings, nothing which required a lot of work. Holmes left them all within minutes. 

After leaving the scene (which Holmes had left after three minutes) and returning to the station, Greg poured himself a coffee as Sally walked over to him. “There’s a man in your office who says he’s from the Government,” she said.

Greg jumped, almost pouring coffee on the carpet. “What?” The thought of tax returns and expenses forms rushed through his head. Oh God, what had he done wrong now?

“He was here when I got back. He’s been waiting about 20 minutes,” Sally said.

Greg carried his coffee through to his office. The man turned around, studying him with assessing eyes. He was tall and impeccably dressed with a straight mouth and long nose. He stood and held out his hand, which Greg shook. “Detective Inspector Lestrade. I am Mycroft Holmes.” 

“What?” Greg frowned, and sunk into his chair. “No, hang on, two John Smiths I can believe. I don’t believe I’ve met two Mycroft Holmeses in the past two months.”

“What?” the man asked, taking the seat opposite. “Oh, for goodness sake, is that what he’s calling himself these days?” He reached into his briefcase, and passed over a Home Office card. Beside a photograph with ‘Department of Transport’ written beneath it, it said 'Mycroft Holmes'. Greg handed the card back. 

“Just how are you acquainted with Sherlock, exactly?” the man - the real Mycroft - asked.

Greg shrugged. “Who’s Sherlock?”

“The man whose drug habit you helped fund last week. He has been at two cases with you in the past week.”

“He said his name was Mycroft,” Greg said.

“It’s Sherlock. Have you honestly been talking to a man outside the force about cases and you don’t know who he is?”

“I pulled him in as a witness. He’s been hanging around. He’s been of use. He’s quite smart.”

“Yes. Quite an understatement. Such a shame he has decided to use his mind for police work, when his talents would be much more wisely used elsewhere.” The man flashed him an unapologetic smile. “No offence intended - while simultaneously destroying it with drugs. Nonetheless, will you be continuing to engage his services?”

“If he keeps being useful.” 

“Very good. This could be good for him. I find it most distressing he has decided drugs are going to make him feel better. He has one of the greatest minds in Britain and he is destroying it so needlessly. I haven’t spoken to my brother in several months. But I have his interests very much at heart. If you could keep me informed, I would be very grateful.” 

Greg’s answer was immediate. “No.” 

“I’m sorry?”

“I’m not spying on your brother for you. You want to know, ask him yourself.”

Confusion laced its away over Mycroft’s face, as though he was a person unused to being told ‘no’. “Very well. Sorry to have used up so much of your time, Detective Inspector. I expect you and I could be seeing quite a lot of each other. Do look after Sherlock for me. And for goodness sake, stop giving him money for heroin.” Mycroft collected his briefcase and sauntered out.

“Great,” Greg muttered. “That’s bloody great. Donovan!”

Sally peered around the door. “What was that about?”

“God knows. Could you look up everything we have on…” Greg hesitated. He could look up ever file they had on Sherlock Holmes. But something told him to give him the benefit of the doubt instead. “No, don’t worry.

He changed ‘Mycroft Holmes’ to ‘Sherlock Holmes’ on his phone, with a suspicion this was all going to be much more trouble than it was worth.

* * *

**June 2005.**

“Who’s he?” Sally questioned, sneering.

“He’s with me,” Greg told her, handing Sherlock some gloves. “Change your expression, Sally, or you’ll get stuck like it.”

“Oh God. It’s that weirdo, isn’t it? But what’s he doing here?”

“He’s coming to look at what we get up to.”

“But why?”

“Because I said he is. Now come on, crime scene.”

Sherlock followed Greg into the building, Sally hot on their tail. “Who is he?” she asked again.

“Name’s Sherlock Holmes,” Sherlock said, a fake, bright smile on his face. “And you are?”

“PC Sally Donovan. Who are you?”

“Consulting detective.”

“No, you bloody well are not!” Greg exclaimed, wondering where Sherlock had plucked that title from. “You’re not consulting on anything, you’re observing.” Sherlock stared at him, waiting, Greg supposed, for what he was supposed to be observing. “There was a break-in here last night. So, we’re finishing collecting evidence. Looking for fingerprints and any evidence which will lead us to who it was. The homeowners were out at a restaurant and got back at midnight.”

“Midnight? Seems quite late to come home from a restaurant,” Sherlock remarked. “What did they take?”

“A lot of jewellery. A couple of pricey family heirlooms.”

“And how did they get in?” 

“This window.” Greg led Sally and Sherlock over. Sherlock peered at it.

“Sir-” Sally started to speak, but Greg shook his head.

“Have you found the implement they smashed it with?” Sherlock asked.

“There was a cricket bat in the garden.”

Sherlock’s whipped round. “You’re testing me,” he said. “You already know what happened.”

Greg tried to keep his face blank. “And what was that?”

Sherlock began to smile. “I don’t know if you thought this would be tricky, Detective Inspector, but you’ve got to try harder than this.” He let out of huff of air as though he was preparing for the speech of his life.  “No one stays at a restaurant until midnight. They went to a restaurant, that’s clear since there are those sweets they give you with your receipt on the coffee table. But they went separate ways after the restaurant. Look at the shoes by the front door. A pair of high heels, the sort you take a taxi for. But the men’s shoes, still smart, but with mud around the sole. Suggests that either he went to the restaurant with those dirty shoes on - unlikely - look how pristine this house is - or he walked back.

“In the picture on the wall, the child looks about 10. And next to that is the newspaper cutting of him playing cricket. A cricket bat was used to break in. In all probability it was the child’s bat and they’re trying to get the insurance money for the jewellery. But you need a police form to make the claim. I suppose they were expecting you’d all be too busy to come round and check on the evidence.”

Greg smiled. “The man’s the brother of an officer. He asked us to give it more attention than we would normally, so we sent a whole team. They’re both in custody at the moment.”

“So why bring me here?” Sherlock asked.

“Like you said, it’s a test. You want to be useful to me, I need you to prove you can be.”

“Oh, you’re a sneaky one, Detective Inspector.”

From behind Sherlock, Sally rolled her eyes. “I still don’t understand why you’re entertaining him, Inspector. You can’t start bringing people to crime scenes. Has he got any clearance?”

“Worried about your job, Sally?” Sherlock asked. “Don’t be, I’m not interested in it. I’m far too intelligent to waste my time solving day-to-day burglaries.”

Greg groaned. “God’s sake…”

“Who the hell who do you think you are?” Sally squared up to him. “Didn’t we pick you up at a crime scene near some bodies?”

“Yes, but I’m not connected to that case. Although, Lestrade, if you’ll let me see your files…”

“Don’t push your luck,” Greg warned. 

“Sally. PC Donovan. Sally. Stop scowling, or your fellow officer over there won’t be taking you out for Chinese again.”

Sally stared at him. “You… what? How…”

Sherlock ignored her. “See you soon, Inspector. I hope the test has been illuminating for you.”

With a swish of his coat, he left the house leaving Sally to stare at Greg, her arms folded across her chest.

Greg grinned at her. “So did you have Chinese with Bullock last night?” he asked. 

“What’s that got to do with anything?” she snarled.

Greg shook his head in bewilderment. “Amazing.”

“Bloody freaky you mean.”

“But incredible. Get it all cleared up here, and I’ll see you back at the station.”

“Sir! You can’t just bring random people to crime scenes.”

Greg paused at the door. “Well, are _you_ going to say anything?” he asked. She pressed her lips together. “That’s fine then.” 

“I’ve got your back, sir,” Sally said. “Because I know you and we’ve worked together a long while. But I don’t understand what you’re doing.”

Greg regarded her with a long look. “I’ve never met anyone like him. That’s all it is.” 

He’d thought about what Sally said. Of course he had. He knew the risks he was taking. But it was just a break-in and a couple of useful tips. That was all. 

That was all. 

* * *

He got home to Caroline at 9.12pm, after a night out with people from work. Sally had spent the evening scowling at him, and after a third attempt trying to explain the Sherlock situation, Greg had given up.

Caroline slouched on the sofa in jeans and a t-shirt, watching some American drama. Greg leaned over the couch to kiss the top of her head. “I thought you were coming home early today,” she said, not looking at him.

“We’ve got an important case tomorrow in court, we were going through our evidence.” Greg grabbed a beer from the fridge. 

“In the pub. You smell like fags and beer.”

“We went through evidence at the pub, yeah. So what?”

“I’m ovulating, Greg. I thought you were giving up cigarettes so we could try for a baby.”

Greg stared at her. “What, suddenly you’re interested in sex with me? Three days a month and then we just give up until next time around?”

She glared. “You’re a bastard sometimes, you know that?”

Greg took a long swig of his beer before sitting beside her. “What’s up?” he asked. 

Caroline muted the TV. “I thought when you got this job things would calm down a bit. I know you’re busier, but I thought you’d spend less time at crime scenes and more time behind a desk. I thought you’d spend more time trying for a baby. I thought you were quitting smoking.”

“I did!” Greg exclaimed. “I did for a day, anyway. I’ll try again. I’ve still got those patches.”

“Do you even want a baby?”

“I want whatever you want.”

“That isn’t an answer,” she said. Greg picked at the label on the bottle. “Greg, come on. Just say it.”

“I want a baby with you. But if it doesn’t happen, I’m not going to feel like I’ve missed anything. I like our life.”

“You like your work,” Caroline muttered.

“Yeah, I do like my work. And I like you. And let’s have a baby.”

“If I don’t have a child, I’m going to feel like my life was worthless,” she murmured. “You never seem to think about me or what I want.”

“I do.”

“You don’t put me first. And that’s fine most of the time.” She shot him a hard look. “I’m used to it.”

“I’ll try harder. Honest. I’ll quit smoking for longer this time.”

“It’s not all about the stupid smoking.”

“It feels like a lot is about the smoking,” Greg muttered. 

Caroline stood up, turning the TV off. “Just come to bed and give me a baby, dammit.”

Greg almost laughed, but stopped himself. “What happened to sex being sexy? Foreplay and snogging?”

“Right now? I’m so angry at you it really is just a means to an end.”

“Oh great, now I’m in the mood,” Greg said sarcastically, downing the rest of his drink.

“Just forget it, Greg. Forget everything. I bloody hate you sometimes!”

“Caroline!” Greg called after her as she stormed to the bedroom. She slammed the door. Experience told Greg to go after her. Experience told him he needed hold her and make it okay and have sex with her. 

But, too frustrated to try talking and affection, he turned the channel over, and fell asleep in front of an action film, a beer in hand.

Some time during the night the bottle fell on the floor. The room stank of the stale beer, and Greg groaned when he woke up at 4.03am, a crick in his neck.

He was craving nicotine like nothing else.

He replayed the fight he had with Caroline, and wished he hadn’t ended it like that. Rolling his shoulders, he poured himself a glass of water. He found his nicotine patches and slapped one on. He opened the door to their bedroom, and Caroline sat up. “Not asleep?” he asked.

“I heard you get up,” she said.

“Caroline, I’m sorry.”

She rolled over. “Just come to bed. We’ll sort it out tomorrow.” He stripped and climbed onto his side, drawing her close. She sighed. “We’re a mess, Greg,” she said.

“I know,” he replied, closing his eyes and stroking her hair. 

* * *

His 6am alarm was hellish. And Christ, he needed nicotine.

He had a big case. A jury verdict on a murder case. A Government worker, Hadrian Kirkcudbright had died, and they had a suspect.

This case was 18 months in the making. He had spent months working with his then-Detective Inspector, pulling the evidence together. He had been in court listening to the witnesses all week when he could spare the time. 

And he knew something was wrong.

He knew it as soon as the prosecution lawyer stood up in court and repeated the force’s evidence. He saw the gaps. And when the defence gave their summary he wanted to stand up and shout ‘not guilty’ himself. He hated it had taken him this long to realise it was wrong. It was all wrong. Damn it. Damn it to actual hell.

“How do you find the defendant?”

Greg stared at the jury. _Don’t send down an innocent man_ , he willed.

“Not guilty,” the head juror announced.

Beside him, Greg’s former boss swore under his breath. And though he felt the same anger, Greg would never have accepted a guilty verdict. Not for the wrong man.

He had to pick it up and try again. The culprit was still out there.

* * *

Greg wasn’t surprised to find a member of the Holmes family sat at his desk when he got back from court that day; it was just the sort of day he was having.

He stormed in, slammed the door, kicked the bin and turned on bloody Mycroft Holmes, the picture of serenity in his chair, as if he had the right to walk in and do as he pleased.

“Bad day?” Mycroft Holmes asked, calm and poised.

“Great deduction,” Greg muttered, pulling his sodden coat off and throwing it at the radiator. It fell on the floor. As he stepped over to pick it up, he heard his shoe slosh with water. “I feel like I’ve just gone for a swim in the bloody Thames. It’s bloody chucking it down.” Mycroft stayed quiet. “What are you doing in my office?”

“You lost the Kirkcudbright case,” Mycroft said.

“Yes, I’m aware. I was in the bloody court room. Do you want a coffee?”

“What?” Mycroft asked.

“I’m making a coffee, do you want one?” Greg winced at his tone.

“Oh. No, I am quite alright, thank you.”

Greg turned the machine on. He clenched his fists at his sides, staring as the machine whirred away before exclaiming: “fuck!”

Mycroft hummed. “Yes, I must admit, until I saw the files I thought the case was solved too. However, when I heard the jury deliberations were taking a while I asked to have them sent over.” Mycroft tutted. Actually tutted. “Come on now, Detective Inspector, you knew that wasn’t your man.”

“The evidence-”

“-Was convincing in theory. But once you looked at it on paper, it looked circumstantial at best.”

“How the hell did you get my files?”

“Hadrian Kirkcudbright worked in my department. And I knew plenty of people who could acquire the files for me when they thought as highly of him as I did.”

“Was he your boyfriend or something?” Greg asked, spooning coffee into his mug.

“No. Just a colleague. But a good one. You knew you had the wrong man, Inspector, but I’m sure it can be easily put right.”

“Is that what you’re here for? To tell me how to solve my case?” Greg collapsed into his chair.

“Actually, no. Although, please do solve it. Get Sherlock to take a look, I know he’ll find what you’re missing. No, the reason I’m here.” Mycroft picked a stack of letters from the table. “These are all addressed to Sherlock. Since he does not wish to see me, I thought you might be able to pass them to him. I doubt they’re particularly of interest to him, but it might do well to remind him he does have some responsibilities.”

Greg snorted. “Sherlock? Responsible?” 

“Quite,” Mycroft agreed. “But he does owe Cambridge University £190 in book fines and his mobile company around £300 and I fear the latter might send some sort of chap round to collect it if he’s not careful.” Mycroft rose to his feet. “Seeing you so damp really has reminded me I must get an umbrella. Have a better afternoon than you have had a morning, Detective Inspector.” He strolled out without waiting for a response.

* * *

He got home just as Caroline was dishing up dinner. She eyed him with sympathy. “I’m so sorry it fell through, babe. I saw it on the news.”

“Oh God, was I on it?” Greg asked.

“No, don’t worry. They said it shouldn’t have got to court in the first place.”

Greg dished up some salad with his lasagna. “Yeah. No. I dunno. We went through that case with a fine tooth comb. I don’t know why we didn’t see how wrong it was. It was the right decision. How was your day?” 

“We made a paper mashé solar system.”

Greg grinned at her. “Really?”

“Yep. Saturn imploded, and the sun is the same size as the moon, but we all tried really hard and got very messy. It was a good day.”

“I’m glad it was for one of us.”

She stared at the table. “Greg, last night… I know you’re under stress.”

“I’m always under stress. I always take it out on you.”

“Let’s put babies on hold. Just for a while.”

Greg frowned. “What?”

“Until we’re both in the right place. You solve this case, and you’ll feel better. I don’t want children in the wrong circumstances.”

Greg bit his lip, not sure what to say. He knew he wasn’t unhappy with her decision. “I’m sorry, Caz.”

“Just eat your lasagna,” she said as she forced a smile. 


	4. I Ain't Scared Of Lightning

**August 2005.**

A forensics expert knelt by the door, taking fingerprints from the handle. “Anything interesting?” someone asked, and Greg turned to find Sherlock strolling into the building. There was a line of swear on his brow.

“Oi,” Greg said as he sauntered past, grabbing his arm and hauling him close. He inspected his eyes. “You’re high.” 

“What does it matter?” Sherlock asked. “I’m still useful.”

“I don’t care if you could be useful, you’re not getting anywhere near my crime scene.” Greg yanked him towards the car and held the passenger door open for him. “In.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “This is ridiculous,” he said as he took a seat.

Greg ignored him, slamming the doors closed and getting behind the wheel. He would just drive them around the block and give Sherlock a bollocking. He hoped a moving car would mean Sherlock couldn’t escape. Wouldn’t put it past him to jump out of a moving vehicle though, the nutter.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Greg snapped. 

Sherlock snorted. “Solving your case. Or I would be if you’d let me have a look.”

“No bloody way when you’re dosed up to your eyeballs.”

“Even with heroin my mind is far superior to your band of merry men.”

“I don’t give a bloody damn if that’s true. You’re a liability without drugs, Sherlock, and if this ever went to court and someone found out I based my evidence on a drug addict’s ideas, I’d lose my job.” Sherlock stayed quiet, looking out of the car. “Look, mate,” Greg said, in what he hoped was his most sympathetic voice. “You’ve been useful on my cases. I might have solved some of them without you but it would have taken me double the amount of time. But I’m taking a massive risk bringing you to crime scenes and letting you look at the files. In fact, it’s bloody illegal. You ever turn up drugged up again and you’ll be out on your arse and you will never work with me again, is that clear?”

“It’s clear,” Sherlock muttered. “But I’m not an addict.” 

“Where do you live? I’m taking you back there.”

“No you’re not.”

Greg glanced at him. “Yes I bloody am. If one of my ‘merry men’ finds you on the street and decides you’re high, chances are you’ll never work with me again then either. Now where am I dropping you off?” Sherlock muttered a road name and Greg turned down a street.

Greg stayed quiet after that, trying to work out if a lecture would be worthwhile or whether Sherlock might have taken it in already. He’d come across plenty of people with drug problems during his time in the force, but none of them had been as intelligent as Sherlock. 

“Y’know, Sherlock, if you can stay off the drugs, I’ll see about getting you access to Bart’s.” Sherlock’s expression grew more interested. “If you can prove to me you can be clean for a month, I’ll go and talk to the forensics team and see if you can help out there. But if you get back on the heroin, I’m pulling you straight back out.”

“What could I do?”

“Have a play with the evidence, use the equipment, examine the bodies. You have a science qualification, right?” Sherlock nodded. “It might take some work on my part,” Greg added. “But if I can find you someone patient enough to put up with you then I should be able to get you in. But you’ve got to help yourself first. I will go and ask them today. And if you’re clean in a month, then that should have given me enough time to get it sorted. What do you reckon?”

Sherlock stayed silent, so Greg just turned his CD player on. Sherlock made a disgusted huff and Greg grinned as he turned up the volume.

* * *

Greg couldn’t believe his eyes when Sherlock told him to stop the car outside where he lived. Greg had carried out two arrests here in the past, both drug related, and it was often used by squatters. He thought back to Sherlock’s supposed brother – Mycroft – and the not-too-shabby suit he wore and wondered how on earth Sherlock had ended up here.

“This house?” 

“Obviously,” Sherlock said, getting out. Greg had planned to drop him off and get rid of him, but got out of the car himself. Sherlock rolled his eyes, but didn’t say anything as Greg followed him into the building and where he supposed was Sherlock’s ‘room’.

It had a dark wooden floor with a grubby mattress stuck in the middle. No sheets, although Greg did note the room didn’t seem too cold. One saving grace, he thought. Sherlock slumped into the lone chair, next to the window..

Greg went to lean against a desk, but thought better of it when he saw the strange mould on it. Sherlock turned his attention back to the window. “Do you like police work?” Greg asked.

“It keeps my mind working,” Sherlock said. “I get bored.”

“You’re lucky I’m a patient man.”

Sherlock snorted. “You sound like my brother.” He spun his head around. “Oh God, you’ve met my brother.”

Greg stared at him. “How did you know that?”

“Obvious. He’s always interfering in my life. Is this why you’ve let me go to Bart’s? How much is he paying you?”

“He’s not paying me anything."

“Makes a change,” Sherlock muttered. "Though I suppose bribing the police is below even him."

“He cares about you.” Sherlock huffed. “So what’s the problem with you and your brother?”

“Don’t know,” Sherlock said. “Deleted it.”

“You what?” 

“I deleted it,” Sherlock repeated.

“Sherlock, you can’t just ‘delete’ things.”

“Just because you’re incapable of it, doesn’t mean I am. It’s not hard. I don’t understand why everyone can’t do it.”

“That’s just great. Genius Sherlock Holmes can just forget everything he wants.” Greg’s phone interrupted them, and he walked out of the room to take the call. 

Sally reeled off the details of the case, before she added: “where did you and the freak go?”

“To chase a lead,” Greg replied, ending the call. He wandered back into the room to find Sherlock sticking a needle in his arm.

“For God’s sake, Sherlock! Did you even listen to a single thing I said in the car?”

“Is this before or after you turned your noise on?”

Greg threw his arms up. “My noi-for fuck’s sake, I am not putting up with you. Next time I see you, I’m bringing a drug testing kit and if you’re not clean, I am not working with you again.” He stormed out and down the stairs.

When Greg emerged from the house he was unimpressed – but perhaps not that surprised – to find his hubcaps were missing.

“Bloody perfect.” It was just that kind of a day.

* * *

Greg pushed Sherlock from his mind for the rest of the week. He had cops dealing with missing children and shoplifting offences and he had to give evidence in court. He’d pushed Sherlock so far out of his head that when he saw the black car outside New Scotland Yard, it took him a few moments to work out where he recognised it from.

The back door opened, and who else would it be but Sherlock’s older brother. “What do you want?” Greg asked.

“To have a conversation,” Mycroft replied. “Get in.” Greg ignored him, heading towards the car park. “We’ll drive you home.” 

“I have my own car," Greg muttered, shoving his hands into his pockets. 

“We need to talk about Sherlock.” He paused. “Please. We will drive round the area and then you can drive home in your own car.”

Greg rolled his eyes. “This better be quick. My wife is expecting me home.” He slid onto the black leather seat beside Mycroft. Opposite him was a woman with brown hair typing into a Blackberry. “Hello,” he said. She inclined her head, but her eyes never left the screen.

“She’s not much of a talker,” Mycroft said. “We need to talk about Sherlock.”

“What about him?”

“He hasn’t been helping on cases this last week. It concerns me.”

“He turned up high to a crime scene,” Greg said, watching Mycroft’s face drop. Even the mysterious silent woman glanced at him. 

“So you have ended all contact with my brother?” Mycroft asked.

“I didn’t say that.” 

“Then what are you saying?”

“I told him I’d throw him out on his ear if he ever showed up at a crime scene high again. But I also told him that if he can clean for a month, I’ll get him access to Bart’s.”

“You would let him do forensic work?” 

“I’d let him help,” Greg corrected. “If I found someone willing to put up with him.”

Mycroft stayed quiet for a few moments as he drew out his pocketwatch. Greg fidgeted and smoothed down his shirt. “I need to attend a meeting,” Mycroft said. “But if your association with Sherlock is to continue, and I do believe that is for the best, then I would like to spend some time informing you about my brother.”

“I’ll find it out for myself, thanks,” Greg said.

“As honourable,” Mycroft sneered, “as that sounds, I would prefer to fill in the gaps Sherlock would never tell you. It would be of some help.”

Greg rubbed his face. “Alright. I can do tomorrow.”

“You can do after 7pm, sir,” the woman said.

“Between 7 and 9 would be satisfactory for me,” Mycroft said. “I will take you out for dinner.”

The last thing he wanted was to spend more time in this man's company than necessary. “I don’t need dinner.”

“No, I’m sure.” Mycroft smiled, though it never reached his eyes. “But after a hard day, I do. And I have a flight to catch at 11pm. It would be convenient for me to have a conversation with you over dinner. Where shall we pick you up from?”

Greg gritted his teeth. “You can pick me up from work,” he said, as the car pulled back up to the police car park. 

“Very well. See you tomorrow, Detective Inspector.” 

Greg could not have got out any faster if he’d tried.

* * *

The following evening, Greg and Mycroft sat in silence in the back of the car, Mycroft typing on his laptop, the brown-haired woman still working on her mobile.

This meal was his idea of hell. He had spent the entire day trying to find a way to wriggle out of it. He told Sally he was having dinner ‘with an old friend’ but he needed an excuse not to go. He hadn’t poured the coffee down his shirt on purpose, but thought it was a good enough reason not to turn up. When she managed to find him a spare shirt, he didn’t try to hide his scornful expression.

Instead, here he was, in the back of Mycroft’s car with his strange assistant feeling, once again, under-dressed and uneducated. Greg text his wife.

MESSAGES

19.02: Why am I doing

This? Would rather be

home. X

MESSAGES Caroline Lestrade

19.03: Hv a nice meal and

make him pay! Am working

late anyway. Parents eve.

Fun… Lv u! X

“We’re here,” Mycroft said.

Greg pulled a face as he studied the restaurant, doormen waiting outside. “Looks a bit posh for me,” he said, looking down at the shirt that didn't quite fit. He suspected it belonged to Sam Brockhurst, the PC who had just joined the team. It was just his colour. “I don’t think they’ll let me in.”

“Nonsense,” Mycroft said.

They stepped outside. “Is she not coming?” Greg asked.

“It’s her night off. Supposedly.” Mycroft gestured to the door. “Come.”

Greg pulled his jacket tighter around himself, following Mycroft to the door. He was hit by the smell of steak, and something sweet and rich. It may have been out of his salary range by a million miles, but he was determined to enjoy it. He might never get a chance to go a place like this again. They were shown to a table without Mycroft even having to state his name. “Come here often?” Greg asked, looking around. He let the waiter take his coat and watched him as he handled the garment. Greg patted down his shirt. He should have worn a tie…

“Not very. I have brought a few colleagues here for meetings.”

“And what exactly do you work as?”

“I hold a small position in the British Government,” Mycroft replied. “Are you willing to share a bottle of wine? Do you have a preference?”

“Er… yeah, wine’s fine. I’ll drink whatever colour, I’m not fussy.”

Watching Mycroft raise an eyebrow, just a fraction, Greg supposed that was the wrong answer. Mycroft didn’t even look at the wine list. He asked for a bottle of something fancy-sounding and gestured to the menu. “I recommend the duck. Although I had the lamb the last time I was here and it was exquisite.”

Greg skimmed the prices. “I can’t really-”

“Don’t worry about the cost, I know how much you earn and I know how much I earn. I brought you here, it is my treat.”

“I don’t want charity.”

“By looking after Sherlock for no reward, you’re practically giving charity. Please. Enjoy yourself. I will be abroad for around three weeks and this could be the last good meal I have for a while.”

“Are we having starters?”

Mycroft smiled, the first real one Greg had seen him give. It lit up his face. “Please. Anything you would like.” The waiter brought the wine over, which Mycroft duly tasted. A few moments later, some bread and butter was brought to the table.

Greg ordered a garlic mushroom dish followed by the recommended duck, while Mycroft chose a risotto and steak. “Not that I mind, but why have you brought me here?” Greg asked, taking a sip of his wine. “Holy shit this is…” He winced. “Sorry.”

Mycroft chuckled, not looking the least offended. “It’s to your liking?” he asked.

“Are you kidding me? The wine I drink tastes like piss compared to this.”

Mycroft’s smile widened as he ripped off some of the bread. “I believe your question was why have I brought you here? This is the least I could do for what you’ve done for Sherlock the past few months.”

“Are we going to talk about Sherlock all night?” Greg asked.“I mean, I want to talk about Sherlock. And okay, I have a lot of questions. A. Lot. Of questions. But I don’t want to spend all night talking about him. I spend too much time at work thinking about what I’m going to do about him.”

Mycroft smiled. “That sounds very familiar.”

“So, let’s make a deal,” Greg said. “I imagine talking about Sherlock is going to take a long time. But once we get dessert, we talk about something else.”

“Your deal is acceptable.”

Greg buttered the bread. “Let’s get Sherlock out of the way then. I don’t want to know any big secrets. He can tell me himself.”

“I’m surprised you haven’t looked his record up already.”

“When you came into my office that day, I could have looked him up. I was about to. I didn’t.”

“You’re an honourable man, Detective.”

“Greg.”

“You’re an honourable man. Greg.” Greg frowned down at his bread. “You should learn to accept compliments," Mycroft told him.

“How long has Sherlock been an addict?” Greg asked, ignoring him. 

“Hard to say. I believe it started at university, but I was otherwise engaged during that period.”

“Otherwise engaged?”

“I was abroad. Sherlock does not regard himself as an addict. He believes he can pick it up and put it straight back down whenever he wants. He is not as in control as he would like to think he is.”

“Where’s he getting the money from?”

“I don’t know,” Mycroft admitted. “It wouldn’t surprise me if he’s sitting in pubs challenging patrons to bets. I have tried to give him money but he will not accept it. I top up his account, but he hasn’t touched it in the past six months, as far as I can tell.”

“Where he’s living is disgusting,”

Mycroft sighed. “Is he still living on that mattress in a hovel near the Thames?”

“Yeah. I wanted to tell him to pack his stuff - what there is of it - and come stay on the sofa. And I’d offer it. If he got clean.”

“If seems like a lot of things would improve for Sherlock if only he got clean. Why are you so willing to engage with him?” Their conversation paused while the waiter placed their starters down. Greg forked some of his mushrooms onto the brochette and almost groaned around his fork.

“This is so good,” he said. Mycroft smiled and began to eat. “I pulled him in as a witness,” Greg said between mouthfuls. “That was all it was. But he’s had some interesting insights on my cases. Thought of things I would never had thought of.”

“While I’m sure that’s true on occasion, I’m quite sure you would have got there eventually.”

Greg shrugged. “That might be true. He’s proving to be very helpful. And I feel… overprotective. I don’t know why.”

“Sherlock doesn’t really have any friends.”

“I didn’t say I was a friend.”

“But you are concerned for his wellbeing?” 

Greg hesitated, using the excuse of finishing his starter. “Yeah. Yeah, I guess I am a bit concerned. He’s like no one I’ve met before. And if I could give him a ring when I have a tough case and have him help, that would be great. But I can’t trust him when he’s high.”

“Do you think your threat will work? That he will stop if he has the opportunity to work at Bartholomew's?”

“What do you think? You know him better than me.”

“I hope it works,” Mycroft murmured, sounding wistful. “I would love nothing more than to see him use his mind in a beneficial way.”

“What happened between you two?” Greg asked. “Sherlock said he ‘deleted it’.”

“He did, did he?” Mycroft sighed. “Honestly. Nothing particular happened. Sherlock and I have never had the warmest of brotherly relationships, it’s most unfortunate. I would do anything for him. Nonetheless, I worry about him and try to do my best for him. Unfortunately, he does not always wish for my help or expertise.”

“So he’s trying to be independent?”

“Perhaps. If he had a job or at least something to do… I do very well to prevent mummy and father from realising what’s wrong. But if he continues to act like this… I wish I could do something more, but alas, he will not let me.”

“So you want me to help for you? You know I won’t report back to you. I need him to trust me.”

Mycroft raised his hand to silence him. “I realise that now. I trust you to look out for Sherlock. That is the biggest compliment I can give you.”

“What do I need to do?” Greg asked.

“I think you’re doing just fine. I think the promise to take him to Bartholomew's was a good one. And if he cannot make good on his side of the bargain, well, I will just need to consider an alternative.”

“I’ll do what I can,” Greg said as the waiter arrived with their main courses.

Mycroft smiled. “It appears we have finished talking about Sherlock ahead of schedule.”

“It does,” Greg agreed. “This food looks incredible.” Mycroft waited until Greg had taken a bite of his food before starting his own. “Tastes amazing,” Greg said. “Thanks for this.”

“Not at all.”

Greg topped up both their wine glasses. “So, where’d you go to university?”

“Oxford. Did you go?”

“Nottingham,” Greg replied. “Were you a rower?”

Mycroft looked as though he was about to burst into laughter, but toned it down to a chuckle instead. “Do you really imagine me in a boat?”

Greg grinned. “It was the only thing about Oxford I could think of.”

Mycroft laughed. “No, I was not a rower.”

“Didn’t get into any trouble at all?”

A coy smile emerged on Mycroft’s face. “I didn’t say that. How was Nottingham?”

“It was good fun. All the time. I didn’t get a great grade at the end of it. But I had a lot of fun.”

“Did you always wish to be a policeman?”

“No, not really. I didn’t know what I could do. But when I left uni, it seemed like the best option. Turned out I wasn’t bad at it. What do you do in the Government, exactly?”

“A small role in the Department of Transport.”

“And you’re going abroad for three weeks?”

“Other countries have transport,” Mycroft said. “I’m afraid I cannot talk about my work.”

Greg grinned. “If you told me you’d have to kill me?” 

“I believe you are referencing James Bond. Unfortunately that isn’t the case.”

“Shame. You seem like a James Bond to me.”

“That is the most extraordinary thing anyone has ever said about me.”

“And I already accused you of being a rower. Where did you grow up?”

“Not in London. In the country.”

“And your parents?” Greg asked. 

“Continue to live in the country. In a cottage. They left our ancestral home some time ago.”

Ancestral home? “Are they wealthy?”

“We wanted for nothing.”

“I take it you already know about my folks. You and Sherlock seem to have some sort of intuition about these things.”

“It’s not intuition, it’s deduction." Mycroft studied him. "I could find out what happened to your birth parents. If you wanted.”

“So could I,” Greg reminded him. “Police, remember? I nearly did a few times. I had the computer up and ready but I couldn’t do it. Either they both died in a horrible accident and had no other family and so I ended up…” He swallowed. “Well, that’s the best case scenario. I don’t want to think about the others.”

“But you were fostered?” Mycroft asked. 

“When I was 12. I took their surname when I was 17. Alice, my foster mum, she died of cancer the same year. Dad moved back to France when I was 20 to be with his family. I met Caroline a few years after university, we married pretty young. Her parents weren’t thrilled.”

“But you’ve never had children.”

“Not for a lack of trying. We stopped four years ago. Started retrying recently.” He shifted in his seat, thinking of those recent failed attempts at foreplay and sex. “You’re not married? Kids? You've got a ring.”

“No, my work takes up a considerable amount of time.”

“If it wasn’t for meeting Caroline so young, I think I’d have been the same. She wants kids. But. I could live without it.”

“You’re satisfied.”

“I love my work. I love my wife. I don’t really feel like I need a lot else.”

Mycroft finished his food. “You do not have my contact number,” Mycroft said. He pulled a card and small pen from his pocket. He wrote a number and passed it over.

“Do I need to burn this after reading?” Greg asked, grinning.

Mycroft smiled. “That will not be necessary. But this is my direct number, and I do not give it out to just anybody.”

Greg saved the number in his phone and dialled it. “Now you’ve got mine,” he said. “I won’t contact you every time Sherlock gets into trouble. But if there’s something you need to know, I’ll let you know.”

“It is impossible to explain how much I appreciate that gesture.”

“Is there anything I need to be aware of?” Greg asked.

“No. Nothing you haven’t realised already. But if you require anything, please contact me. I realise Sherlock can be… difficult.”

“That’s an understatement.” He sat back in his chair, tilting his head at Mycroft. “I thought tonight was going to be terrible. I tried very hard to get out of it.”

Mycroft smiled, not looking surprised, or offended. “It did occur to me that there must be many better ways for you to spend your evening. But I’m grateful you agreed to come.” Mycroft’s personal assistant headed towards their table, moving just within Mycroft’s eye-line. 

Mycroft put the money down on the table. “I must get to the airport. Thank you for a pleasant evening. I will be in touch.”

“Cheers for the food.”

“You are very welcome. Please, stay and finish the wine. Goodnight. Greg.”

“Mycroft.” Mycroft thanked the waiter and left. Greg dialled the number for a taxi, watching the other patrons as he finished his glass of the amazing wine. 

* * *

Greg returned home to find Caroline already in bed, the lights off, phone in hand. She smiled at him as he walked in, putting it on charge. “How was it?”

“Better than I expected,” Greg said. “I learnt a bit more about Sherlock-"

“-Who?”

“The guy who’s been helping us out.”

“Oh, the heroin chappy?”

Greg laughed as he got undressed. “Yep, him. And had some really good food. The guy’s bloody rich. How was parents’ evening?” 

“Full of parents who can’t see anything wrong in their little darlings.”

“What a surprise. Any really bad ones?”

“All of them.”

Greg laughed, and climbed into bed beside her. “Surely it’s not that bad?”

“You try and talk to them,” Caroline said. Greg pressed up against her, kissing her neck. She wriggled away. “Not tonight, hun.”

He clenched his teeth. “Okay. Goodnight.”

“Night.”

Greg kissed her head before rolling over. Before he fell asleep, he was vaguely aware of Caroline picking up her phone and texting.


	5. For The Restless

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reviews from Spooky831, ahutchga1972, gurrier and Goldynwings continue to make me smile. And thank you gurrier for putting Rower!Mycroft in my head. What an image. Enjoy.

_September, 2005_

Greg had practically banged the door down, but he eventually convinced Sherlock to let him into his room. The Inspector threw a plastic tub at him and Sherlock glared. “Come on, this is the deal. You piss in a pot, I take you to Bart’s, we do the tests and if they’re clean – and you charm the pants off everyone there – you get to do forensics.” Greg grinned, his hands in his pockets. Sherlock glared.

“Somehow I feel like you are getting more out of this deal than I am,” Sherlock said.

“That’s not true. You’re just less of a liability if you’re clean.”

Sherlock folded his arms across his chest. He looked too skinny. Greg want to take that man out for a whopping big McDonalds. Greg longed for a Big Mac. He'd have to pick one up on the way home. “I do not need to ‘piss in a pot’ to prove I’m clean,” Sherlock said.

Greg mirrored Sherlock’s pose, folding his own arms across his chest. “Yes you do.”

“I’m not an addict.”

“Yes you are.”

“I’m not doing it,” Sherlock continued to protest.

“Then you’re not getting anywhere near Bart’s. Or my cases.” Greg raised his eyebrows. Sherlock made an angry sound in his throat before storming past Greg into the corridor and into the toilet, slamming the door behind him. Greg grinned to himself and walked across the room. He lifted the mattress up and pulled out a small tin box from underneath it. He was relieved to find it only contained money. He spent the next five minutes looking up and down Sherlock’s living quarters, hunting for drugs paraphernalia, but his search proved fruitless.

He looked out of the window and shivered. The last time he had been here, he had found it warmer than expected. But despite September being a fairly warm month, the room was beginning to feel damp. Greg wasn’t sure he liked the idea of Sherlock living here much longer.

“Are you quite finished?” Sherlock asked from behind him, leaning on the door frame. He held the urine sample out in front of him.

Greg turned away from the window. “I am. And you can carry that for yourself.”

Sherlock pulled a disgusted face. “You made me do this,” he said. “You can carry it.”

As Greg walked past him him, Sherlock tucked the pot into Greg’s pocket. “I hate you right now,” Greg muttered, pulling a face.

Sherlock followed him down the stairs. “So what do I get to do?”

“You don’t get to do anything today,” Greg said. “Today you meet the staff, try not to scare them, and make them like you. Which, if you stick to science and topics I don’t understand, I’m sure you’ll manage.” Greg risked a glance at Sherlock as they got into the car, and if he didn’t know better, he’d have thought Sherlock almost appeared nervous. He was watching out of the front window, wringing his hands. “Seriously, Sherlock. Stay clean. That’s all you have to do and I’ll pull you in whenever I need you. Which will probably be a lot.” Sherlock glanced over at him. Unsure if flattery was the right technique with this difficult man, Greg added, “you’re a genius. And I want you. Help yourself too, mate.”

“Of course you want me,” Sherlock said. Perhaps flattery was just encouraging the inner monster then. Won’t be trying that again in a hurry. “Your men are incompetent. If what you need for my help is for me to be off the drugs, then I suppose it is only logical that I don’t take drugs.” Greg smiled and decided not to force the issue any further.

 

* * *

 

 

Walking into Bart’s, Greg always felt out of place. He watched them with their microscopes and the screens which apparently proved crucial to a case but until he had the words in front of him and a few moments to digest the information, he always felt inferior and a bit of a spare part. He wasn’t stupid, and he knew how important this was. But the science… well, it was not exactly his area.

He had expected to feel a bit more like he had the upper hand on this occasion, introducing Sherlock around and pretending he knew everything that was going on. But then Sherlock began asking what equipment they had, and could they do this, and could they test for that and Greg found himself feeling pretty useless again. As Greg leaned against the wall on his phone, the head technician pulled him aside. “So, why are you introducing him? He on your team?”

Greg looked over at Sherlock who was gesturing wildly and evidently angering one of the scientists. “No, not exactly. He’s just... there’s something special about his brain. I told him I’d introduce him around here.”

“We can’t afford to pay him.”

“No, you don’t have to.” Greg watched the way Sherlock stopped arguing, peering over a scientist’s shoulder gazing at the monitor in front of them. He seemed to be treating that scientist as more of an equal. Almost. “To be honest, I think he’d do this kind of work for free. Don’t give him an access card, just let him in when he shows up and you think he’ll be useful.”

“He a family member of yours?”

“God no.” Oh God, that thought was enough to make Greg shudder. Imagine being related to _that_. “Just tell me if he starts upsetting all your staff.”

The technician narrowed his eyes. “Is that a possibility?”

Greg bit his lip. “I’d love to say no. But he’s rubbed pretty much all my team up the wrong way.”

“You’re not filling me with confidence, Lestrade.”

“I get on with him. Just set him boundaries and let him do his work and I think he’ll be fine.”

“You think?”

“I hope so. Look, he’s smart. Smarter than you. And I’m going to be a better Detective Inspector with him than without him, I reckon. I’m not arrogant enough to think me and my team can do it all by ourselves, and if you get an opportunity to do some real good, then take it.”

Greg glanced at Sherlock and lowered his voice. “Look, here’s my advice,” he said. “Pull up some old evidence. Stuff you’ve already worked on, and tell him it’s for a new case. Let him loose on it and let him prove himself to you. If he surprises you, keep him on. If you hate him or he’s more useless than the most useless member of your staff, dump him. But I don’t think you’ll find reason to get rid of him. Except if he pisses everyone off, which is a big possibility.”

“If you say so.”

“Bet you a fiver you’ll want him here.”

“Tenner.”

Greg shook the technician’s hand. “You won’t regret it.” Greg hoped to God that was true.

 

* * *

 

_October, 2005_

Three weeks later, and Sherlock had settled into life at Bart’s surprisingly well. Greg collected the ten pound note after two weeks and although two members of staff had threatened to resign and one actually had, the head technician said it was only because they couldn’t stand to be inferior. In fact, the technician said, he had so little to do with the day-to-day running of the lab that as long as results were coming out he didn’t really care how well his staff got on.

Sherlock wasn’t bringing them coffees and making friends. But he was getting results, and that was all Greg and the hierarchy of Bart’s really cared about.

Sherlock also seemed to be off the drugs for now, although Greg was taking no chances, and had taken a few opportunities to search Sherlock’s flat. He knew Sherlock knew. But the fact the man offered no complaint showed Greg how keen he was to progress at Bart’s. And since he had been allowed access to data from a real case for the first time, he seemed to be thriving.

“Sherlock!” Greg called across the lab.

“What?” he asked, looking up from a microscope. “Don’t you see I’m busy?”

“I just wondered if you wanted to come to a crime scene. But if you don’t then I’ll just leave you to it…”

Sherlock instantly stood up and pulled his coat off the back of his chair (breaking lab regulations, Greg was sure of it). “Come on then, Inspector, no time to waste.”

Greg led the way to the car, reciting the details of the crime scene he had already been told. “It’s a man, early 30s, signs of respiratory failure.” Sherlock followed Greg and got into the car. They drove in silence to the crime scene.

Greg spotted Sally keeping watch over the area and guiding pedestrians and tourists to walk around the crime scene rather than through it. “What’s he doing here?” she enquired, crossing her arms. Greg was beginning to wonder if it was himself or Sherlock who made everyone he knew so needlessly aggressive.

“I brought him along to come and look,” Greg said.

“But he is such a freak,” Sally groaned, not for the first time. Greg decided the best course of action was to ignore her, though it was never easy for Sherlock to do the same, it appeared.

Just as Sherlock decided to take that moment to say something derogatory, Greg quickly grabbed his shoulders and steered him away. “Come on, body’s this way.” Angering Sally was only going to make her worse. Greg rounded the corner, and handed Sherlock a gloves and a blue protective suit. Sherlock stared. “You’ve got no choice. Wear it or go.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes as he put the protective suit on, and Greg did the same before letting them both under the barrier. “So, initial thoughts?” Greg asked.

Sherlock crouched down at the body, a strange glint in his eye. The man’s head was turned to the left, froth around his mouth. Greg put his hand up to silence the forensic expert as he began to speak, giving Sherlock all the encouragement he needed to show off. “His name is probably a Rob or a Robert…” Sherlock started.

“Wait, what? How do you know his name?” the expert enquired.

“The bracelet. Has an R on it. White male, probably English, common male names beginning with R, Rob or Robert seem pretty obvious. It was the sixth most popular baby name in 1975, the approximate year this man was born. Maybe a Russell, but looks like he lives in the streets, does he really seem like a Russell to you?” Greg wasn’t even going to ask how the hell Sherlock knew the most popular baby names of 1975. “The man has been at Regent’s Park sometime in the last hour,” Sherlock announced suddenly.

“That’s. Specific,” Greg said, frowning. “Explain.”

Sherlock sighed, as though distraught no one else understood. Which, Greg conceded, was probably true about 90% of the time.

“The wet mud on his shoes. He’s been on damp grass, damp ground, probably in the last hour. Around his pocket are breadcrumbs, so he’s been feeding some ducks on damp ground. Where’s the closest park with ducks? His shoes are worn right down, he walks a lot, unlikely to have taken public transport to get from there to here. So, closest park with ducks in an hour of here? Regent’s Park.”

“He might have been feeding pigeons,” Greg said.

“In a park? Ducks are most obvious. He’s got himself an expensive jacket. Probably from one of those charity events where everyone has to donate a coat to a homeless person.”

“And he definitely wasn’t brought here or dumped here?” Greg asked.

“That would be the obvious expectation if you’re an idiot,” Sherlock said. Greg rolled his eyes as he continued. “And if it weren’t for the leftover soggy chip on his shoe. Around the corner, a bag of chips has been dropped and is currently being enjoyed by the pigeons. So, he walked here. No, he didn’t walk,” Sherlock corrected, his eyes skimming the man’s legs and feet. “He stumbled. From the scuff on his shoe it looks like he dragged this leg. Doesn’t do that often, the shoe isn’t worn down in that way and it’s a light scuff. His hand is slightly damp where he held onto that fence alongside the road there as he stumbled. He picked off a speck of green paint from the gate.”

“Brilliant,” Greg said.

“You say that,” the forensics man said. “But none of that means anything.”

Sherlock sighed. “No, of course, you want to deal in nameless nobodies, because their cases are easier to clear up.”

“I don’t,” Greg said, trying to draw Sherlock’s attention away from the other man. Greg decided he seemed to be willing to take Sherlock’s insults on the chin while everyone else got their knickers in a twist. And they called him the short-tempered one. “So, tell me.”

“He’s another rat poison case. From the images I saw, the same skin tone, the same frothing at the mouth mouth. Only he died faster. A lot faster.”

“A higher concentration?”

“Maybe,” Sherlock said. “Or mixed with something else, not easy to tell that.”

“Anything else?” Greg prompted.

“He’s not a drug taker. No signs of heroin use on his face, no obvious signs of cocaine. Judging by his breath, he’s more of an alcoholic. And he still came into contact with the poison. Fascinating.”

“I hate this case,” Greg muttered.

Sherlock beamed at him. “This case is brilliant! I will catch you your murderer, Lestrade! Give me all your notes.”

Greg shook his head. “You know this is why Sally calls you a freak, don’t you?”

“Oh, forget about her, you don’t need her. You have me. Get this body to Bart’s, now.” Greg raised his eyebrows. “Ah. You give that order, don’t you?” Sherlock said.

“Yes, Sherlock, I do.”

“My first murder victim, this is thrilling.”

“Sherlock,” Greg warned, waving his hand for the forensics man to walk away. “You can’t be this excited at crime scenes?”

“Why not?”

“It’s not a game.”

“Oh, but it is a game, don’t you see it? London is just a big board game for murderers and serial killers. And our killer here just gives us a new challenge every time. There’s only two common threads. Rat poison and the homeless or the nearly-homeless. But there must be something you’ve missed. I need your case notes. I need to see everything. Pictures, maps, details, I need everything, Lestrade!”

Greg held his hands up. “Alright, alright! Do you want to go with the body or do you want to come to the station?”

Sherlock wavered a moment. “I’ve got everything from the body for now, your fellows can sort it. Give me your files.”

“I won’t give you my files, you can look at them.” Sherlock made a huffing sound and got into the car. “I have to set you boundaries, Sherlock,” Greg said. “Because God knows, you trample over them all anyway.”

Sherlock stayed quiet. Greg turned the radio on and sang loudly to his music on the way to the Yard. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A shorter chapter I'm afraid, just to give me a bit more leeway with how much I'm on top of the fic as a whole. I hope it is to your liking.


	6. Lord, How Long?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To MoonRiver - your comment made me blush. So thank you!

_October, 2005_

Four hours after leaving the crime scene, Greg walked into his office with a coffee and a tea and was surprised to see Sherlock still lying on the floor, his hands in a steeple under his chin. The files were strewn across the floor around him and Greg wondered if he stood up whether it would leave a perfect silhouette of his body there. “Is that helping?” Greg asked, putting the tea on the floor beside Sherlock.

“Quiet. Thinking.”

Greg rolled his eyes and sat back down at his desk.

An hour passed. “Sherlock I need to go home,” Greg said, watching him. “I need to put these files away.”

“Go then,” Sherlock said. He hadn’t moved much in all that time. “Thinking.”

Half an hour later, Greg stared at his empty coffee mug. He felt like he was child-minding. “Sherlock, seriously…” he started, but Sherlock suddenly sat up, with a gasp.

“Oh, Lestrade, Lestrade! You absolute idiot.”

Greg looked at Sherlock with a frown. “Hey!”

“This is beautiful,” Sherlock said. “This is just brilliant.”

Greg put his head in his hands. “Come on, Sherlock, I need to go home to see my wife.”

“No you don’t, your wife’s sleeping with your neighbour.”

His head spun round to look at Sherlock. “What?”

“Obvious. Now, this murderer-”

“-Sherlock! You cannot just say that and shut up-”

“-It’s not important-”

“-It is to me!” Greg’s chest felt tight. His mouth was dry.

Sherlock groaned. “Oh, alright. Honestly, why do you always need to know everything? Isn’t it just enough that I know it and you know by now that I always get it right? Your car smells of perfume.”

“So?”

“You’ve picked me up several times in the past two months, only in the past few weeks has it started smelling like a different perfume. It’s nicer, more pungent. More expensive, probably. And in the past three weeks, you’ve stopped wearing aftershave. So, you’re not making an effort to smell nice for your wife anymore while at the same time your wife is making an effort to smell better.

“You’ve started smoking again and you’ve stopped trying for children. You and your wife share one car, and she works at a school in walking distance from your home, so chances are she’s having the affair with a neighbour and not someone she drives to see. I take it from your expression that she’s always home when you are so she must be having sex close enough to your home to pop back whenever you send her a text to say I’m coming home. Which you always do, just before you leave here, giving her 20 minutes to have her fix and get back just in time to turn the telly on and pass you your beer.”

Greg sat down slowly into his chair, stunned. He thought of Caroline texting while he fell asleep. But no. Not his wife. She wouldn’t. “I don’t believe you.”

Sherlock sighed. “Fine. Let’s get back to murder.”

“Sherlock, you can’t just say these things to people!”

“What? Tell them the truth?”

Greg rubbed his face with his hands. “No. Because it isn’t true.”

Sherlock stood up, leaving the paperwork strewn over the floor. “Feelings. Everyone’s so swept up in their feelings that they don’t look at what’s in front of them,” he muttered.

“Sherlock, seriously, go.”

“But I haven’t told you about the case.” Sherlock looked put out.

“Tell me in the morning.” Sherlock opened his mouth to say something. “Sherlock! Shut up. Tell me in the morning. It will wait.”

“Not if there’s another body it won’t.”

Greg looked at him. “How likely is that?”

“Not very likely tonight.”

“Go home. Please,” Greg said tiredly. He took a ten pound note out of his wallet and handed it to Sherlock. “Get a taxi.”

Sherlock nodded his head, picked up his coat and walked out of Greg’s office. Greg felt as though he could practically hear Sherlock rolling his eyes, continually muttering about feelings, as he did so.

Greg stared at his computer, the light from it hurting his eyes. He made himself another coffee and started going through another case.

Greg didn’t leave work until he knew Caroline would be in bed. He knew it was petty. He knew he should be asking her for the truth. But he decided it avoid it.

 

* * *

 

Greg couldn’t sleep. Of course he couldn’t sleep, he was lying beside his - apparently unfaithful - wife. But rather than being preoccupied with that particular problem, he was more concerned about his case.

Greg was used to sleepless nights. He’d experienced them ever since he could remember, at varying frequencies. But he didn’t feel like sleep was ever going to arrive this time.

He had mostly managed to ignore Sherlock’s deduction about Caroline, which was hard, because he hadn’t seen Sherlock get it wrong yet.

Instead, he thought back to ‘Lestrade! You absolute idiot!’ and ‘I haven’t told you about the case’ and how certain Sherlock was there wouldn’t be another body.

And in several hours of lying on the floor of his office like a mad man, Sherlock had come up with something Greg thought he would never have seen coming. And in that moment Greg was so swept up in the accusation his wife was having an affair that he didn’t care enough to ask what Sherlock had realised.

And there was the moral problem it posed.

He cared more about his wife’s affair than the seven linked bodies that had shown up around London on his watch. One body was par for the course. He felt like he’d let the others happen. It was the first time he’d ever felt like he’d put himself before those lifeless people who appeared in his life silently saying ‘help me’.

He frowned. Was this really the first time he’d put himself before his cases? Well, if Caroline was having an affair, which she wasn’t, then that would be why.

He was angry at Sherlock. Angry that Sherlock had proved himself to be so brilliant, and that Greg himself hadn’t managed to be half as good yet he’d dedicated his life to this. Dedicated his life to saving people.

And Sherlock treated it like it was something he could turn up and just do. Like it was fun. Like playing a game of Cluedo. And God he hated Sherlock Holmes with his waltzing into situations like he belonged and his long fucking coat with his drug habit and bloody pompous brother.

Greg just didn’t see it.

He didn’t see what Sherlock claimed to see, and that was infuriating. What pattern? What link? What did it all mean except someone hated homeless people and wanted them dead and treated them like vermin?

 

4.56am.

Greg woke with a start, his forehead coated in sweat. He felt Caroline move beside him, but he stayed as still as he could, the image of the screaming man fresh in his mind.

He glanced at the clock and watched it tick over to 4.57am.

He let out a long, shaky breath, reaching for his phone. He checked the screen, saw it empty of messages and tried to push the horrid sense of foreboding out his mind.

How he’d ever got to sleep in the first place he didn’t know, but he had managed it somehow. Just needed to close his eyes and let it go…

 

6.30am.

His alarm woke him this time. Caroline muttered ‘uh, why?’ beside him, groaning as she rolled over and buried her face in the pillow.

Greg felt much the same.

He took a few moments before pulling himself out of bed and stumbling to the bathroom.

He looked in the mirror, and felt the dark circles under his eyes. He brushed a hand through his hair, groaning at the new greys that seemed to have sprung up overnight.

After pissing and brushing his teeth he stepped into the shower. He closed his eyes, letting the hot water almost scold his skin.

 

He was out of the house by 7.06am.

He drove to New Scotland Yard with the radio on, and he found he couldn’t even laugh to Chris Moyles on the radio like he usually did.

He turned the sound up when Bad Day by Daniel Powter came on (well, wasn’t that appropriate), but switched it off completely when he pulled up at New Scotland Yard.

He hadn’t taken the time that morning to have a cigarette, so he joined Sally at the bike rack. It was 7.24am, and he still had some time to enjoy it. “Alright, sir?” she asked, looking at him. “Was there a case last night or something?”

“No. Why?”

“Just you look exhausted.”

“Charming, Donovan.”

She shrugged, dropping her cigarette on the floor and stamping it out. “Is everything okay?” she asked.

“It’ll do,” Greg said. “Just this case and the Kirkcudbright case. It’s all a bit too much to think about. But I’m fine,” he added quickly. “I can handle it, I just need sometime to mull stuff over.”

“Don’t even talk to me about the Kirkcudbright case,” Sally said bitterly. “I thought we had it.”

“I didn’t,” Greg said quietly. “I wanted to think we had, but I knew something was off. We’ll figure it out. We’ll figure all of them out.” 

 

* * *

 

Sherlock waited until Greg was about to leave for the day.

He showed up at the Yard just as Greg was finishing his last cup of coffee.

Greg had spent most of the day going over his files. He was desperate to know Sherlock’s thoughts. But pride had kept him from calling or texting. He was going to figure this out for himself, he decided.

He was going to cut Sherlock out. If all Sherlock could do was accuse his wife of having an affair then he could go. And take Mycroft with him, because the man was just a little bit freaky.

But nothing felt clearer at 3.28pm when Greg slammed the folder down on his desk, spilling hot coffee over his keyboard.

And it felt just as far away three hours later.

Sherlock had taken three or four hours to work something out. And Greg had been working on the problem all day and still nothing made sense.

He was working on the Kirkcudbright case simultaneously, of course. And that in itself was posing its own difficulties.

He tipped his head back, closing his eyes. He heard his office door open. “What?” he asked, not bothering to look up.

“Did you figure it out?” came the familiar voice of Sherlock Holmes.

Greg looked at him. He looked paler than usual, if that was possible. “No. Come on then. Take a seat.”

Sherlock sat across from him, not bothering to taking his coat off. “You’re unhappy with me,” Sherlock said.

“Yeah, obvious,” Greg replied, repeating Sherlock’s favourite word. He got a little bit of pleasure out of that. “But I’m putting that aside so you can tell me what you’ve figured out. And try not to sound like a arrogant tosser while you’re at it.”

Sherlock sat in silence, watching Greg before reaching over the desk and taking hold of the files. He flicked through the sheets. He coughed, not much, not loudly, but enough to catch Greg’s attention. But before he could say anything, Sherlock started speaking.

“The first thing that occurred to me were the street names. The body by the bridge was found in Upper Thames Street. The house with the three bodies in Lower Sloane Street. The alleyway off East India Dock Road. And finally, the last body in North Woolwich Road. Upper, Lower, East, North.”

“What’s your point?”

Sherlock started to look exasperated, but managed to reign his expression in. It intrigued Greg that he’d bothered to try. “Upper. Lower. East. North,” he said pointedly.

Greg paused. Thinking. “So they’re all road names that describe locations. So, what, we need to keep an eye on every road beginning with West and South? No, no, but wait, the first body and the last one just died there. They weren’t dumped there or taken there.”

“They were led there,” Sherlock said. “So, no, not dumped. But they were supposed to die in those locations nonetheless. There’s too much of a pattern for it not to be the case. Now…” Sherlock opened the folder, pulling a selection of crime scene and autopsy photos out. He cleared his throat.

“John Doe one, heroin user. Obvious. John Doe two and three, also drug users. John Doe and Jane Doe from the house were also. But Mark Scott wasn’t. Look at his arms. Look at his arms compared to the others. Where are the injection marks? He took heroin once in the last year, maybe once in his life. It was injected along with the rat poison. But his clothes, here in the forensics…”

“He was a dealer,” Greg completed. “I figured that bit out already. Traces of drugs all over him but not much in his body. He’d been in and out of jail on petty offences for years. Last time must have been hard to get back into work or on benefits. So he became a dealer.”

“And so were all the others,” Sherlock said. “Or if not dealers, then they were part of drug networks or gang or whatever else you’d describe it as. These murders aren’t random killings of homeless people or killings of addicts. These are warnings.”

Warnings? Warning of what? Greg didn’t like the sound of that one bit. “And the road names?” Greg asked.

“They refer to areas. Not necessarily the places they were found in either. Imagine London like a big rectangle and divide it into squares, like a grid. Drug dealers and gangs operate all over London in specific areas. If they cross into each others’ territory you get outright war. Some gangs operate in more than one place, all over the city. But it’s spread out and unmanageable. Disorganised chaos. None of their networks are sophisticated enough. But what if one network starts to get a bit smarter than the others?” Sherlock’s eyes began to widen in excitement. “What if one network decides that rather than to spread to a random areas all over the city, they pick several squares all next to each other.”

Greg frowned, trying to digest it. He started to draw a rectangle on his notepad.

“North, South, East, West of the same large geographical area,” Sherlock continued. “And from there, they hope their product is better and they can spread it out into London more widely. All from one concentrated area.

“But someone doesn’t like that. And not all dealers are smart, and some are exceptionally stupid indeed. So our killer starts taking out the weaker members, the lowly-ranked dealers. The rats at the bottom of the food chain. And he leaves them in streets to represent the South, North, East, West of that area. A warning to back-off.”

Greg looked up from his doodle. “So we’re, what, dealing with rival drug dealing gangs?”

“Networks, Inspector. Like I said. You have the rats at the bottom. Running from addict to addict, taking the money, giving them the product. But there are levels above them.”

Greg frowned, thinking. “That. All makes sense. I think. But doesn’t get us much closer to the killer. Except we’re looking for a top dog.”

“When you have the forensics for the last man, let me know. I’ll take a look.”

Greg nodded. “Sherlock?”

“What?”

“I need a urine sample tomorrow.”

Sherlock pulled a face, standing up. He coughed loudly, covering his mouth with his hand, and rubbing his throat. He winced.

“Sherlock. Are you alright? You’re not getting sick are you?”

“Don’t fuss, Inspector.”

He watched the younger Holmes brother leave. Greg chewed his lip and thought back to Sherlock’s ‘home’. He really had to sort something out with that. He couldn’t let the man keep living in those conditions.

But for now, there were even more important matters to attend to.

He picked up his phone and text Caroline.

 

MESSAGES  
6.51pm: Going to the pub.  
Don’t worry about food.  
X

 

He took one last look at his files before standing up and putting his coat on. Sally, Edmund, Carter and a few other PCs were stood in a group laughing together. “Come on Inspector,” Sally said. “We’re missing out on valuable drinking time.”

Greg smiled and followed them out of the building, half-listening to their conversation.

“You see the game last night?” Carter asked, walking beside him.

“No, missed it, mate, I was working late.”

“Again? Mate, seriously, get some sleep.”

“It’s this rat poison case, it’s doing my head in.”

Carter looked at him. “You’ve got to let go sometimes, Greg. You can’t obsess over stuff, you’re more likely to miss what’s right in front of you. How’s the missus?”

“She’s alright. Looking forward to the holidays.”

“Greg. Mate. Just chill out and enjoy the pint tonight, yeah?”

Greg smiled. “So, how was the game?”

“Oh don’t even ask. Bloody ridiculous.”

Greg listened as Carter described the worst penalty miss he’d ever seen as they walked to the pub, and Greg accepted the pint Edmund handed to him.

They sat down at their usual booth, talking for around an hour, when Greg felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. He frowned at the withheld number and walked away from the table to take the call.

“Greg Lestrade.”

“Inspector. This is Loretta Freeman from Mycroft Holmes’ office. He has just returned from his trip and would like to arrange a meeting with you. I have his diary in front of me and he is free between two and half two tomorrow or between eight and 10pm. Which would suit you best?”

Greg rolled his eyes at the audacity of it. “I haven’t agreed to this meeting yet,” he said.

“Which time would suit you best, Inspector?”

Greg frowned. It didn’t seem as though he had much of a choice. “After eight, but…”

“And where will the car pick you up from, Inspector?”

“Uh. God. Um. Just pick me up from work.”

“Very well, Inspector. Good evening.” The woman on the other end of the phone hung up. Greg shook his head and sat back down at the table. How on earth had his life become this?

Caroline wasn’t home when Greg got in. She came back at 11.13pm. She was usually in bed by 11.05.

Greg watched her as she readied herself for bed, tying her hair up and changing into her nightgown. Greg looked for signs of a love bite, anything he could confront her about. But nothing looked different. And he was not going to start snooping on her by going through her phone.

No, he was just going to leave it alone. Sherlock couldn’t be right about everything and he rather enjoyed the status quo. So he put the thought to bed, as much as he could. 


	7. Street Light

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the comment, MoonRiver! I hope this chapter is okay... I'm stressing over it!

_October, 2005_

Sherlock was still at Bart’s in the early evening and Greg decided to wander over to see what was going on. In preparation for his visit with Mycroft later, he had worn a tie for only the second day since he had been promoted. He had avoided disaster so far, and actually received some compliments on his appearance. He was considering it was something he would wear more often.

A new member of staff was sat in the far corner of the lab, writing notes. “Sherlock,” Greg said as he walked in. He looked at the woman. “Hello.”

“Hi," she said. 

“I’m Greg Lestrade. Detective Inspector for the Met.”

“Molly Hooper,” she smiled shyly. “Intern.”

Sherlock was still wearing a coat and scarf. If anything he looked worse than yesterday. Sherlock looked up from his microscope. “Inspector. Excellent.” He reached out and grabbed Greg’s tie out of his jacket, picking up some scissors and promptly cutting it.

Greg clenched his fist. “Hey! What the hell are you doing?”

“I’m testing the absorption rates of blue ties compared to red ties.”

“Bloody hell. Why do I put up with you? I was wearing that for a reason.”

“Why?” Sherlock asked.

“I have a meeting.” Greg took what remained of his tie off, throwing it in the bin and watched Sherlock cut up small piece of fabric, dipping them into different solutions. “Why is this useful?”

“I don’t know yet,” Sherlock said. “The numbers will inform me.”

Greg looked over at Molly, frowning. She shrugged one shoulder a fraction, smiling nervously. “I’m just observing,” she said.

Greg sat down, watching Sherlock. “Is this anything to do with our case?” he asked.

“Could be,” Sherlock said cryptically, before he turned his back to his work and let out a horrible throaty-sounding cough.

“You're making me nervous,” Greg told him, watching as he hunched over his experiments. “Look, I’ve been meaning to have a chat with you actually-”

“Shh. Need to concentrate.”

Greg folded his arms across his chest, watching as Sherlock started to write some numbers down on his sheet.

Nothing Sherlock was doing made particular sense to Greg, but he found it fascinating nonetheless. Greg checked the time. He still had half an hour until Mycroft was picking him up, and it struck him, not for the first time, that he was very close to becoming an intermediary between the brothers. And that would not be a good thing. He’d nip that in the bud quickly. “Sherlock, can I ask you a question?”

“I’m busy! Can’t you see?” Sherlock said impatiently. “I know what you’re going to ask me, and no, I’m not talking to my brother and I’m not moving out of the room either. Now leave and stop distracting me.”

Greg caught Molly’s eye and she quickly looked away and back down at her clipboard. Greg stood up. “Fine. Nice to meet you Miss Hooper. I’ll text you, Sherlock.”

Sherlock huffed in response and Greg wandered out of Bart’s.

He contemplated going to McDonalds and picking up a burger, or maybe Starbucks for a coffee. Instead, he lit a cigarette as he walked back to the Yard, trying to work out how he could get Sherlock out of that run-down building and at least somewhere with a proper bed and heating. 

Just as he put the cigarette to his lips, the black car pulled up alongside him. The driver’s window rolled down. “We were running early,” the driver said. “Finish your cigarette and then we can leave.”

Greg contemplated taking one last breath of it and stamping it out. But instead, he decided to drag it out, savour it. He stood watching the cars roll past and the people wander around. He knew it was obvious he was taking longer over it than he ever would normally, but he took some pleasure out of making Mycroft Holmes wait. He let out a long breath, watching the smoke drift into the air.

A back window was rolled down, and Mycroft looked out of it, a half smirk on his face. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

Greg grinned, rolling the cigarette between his fingers. “Yeah, little bit, not gonna lie.”

Mycroft rolled the window back up, and to Greg’s surprise he stepped out a few moments later. He put his hand out, and Greg handed him the packet. “Terrible habit,” Mycroft said, drawing the cigarette out with his long fingers. “But it has been a tiring few weeks.”

Mycroft put the paper between his lips, and Greg took the lighter back out of his pocket, flicking it and lighting it for him. He watched as Mycroft took a drag, closing his eyes for a few seconds as he savoured it before letting out a slow breath. “Yes. Thank you," Mycroft murmured. 

Greg laughed, putting the lighter and packet back in his pocket. He looked over at Mycroft who appeared to be the most relaxed he had ever seen him. “Enjoying that?”

“Mm,” Mycroft agreed. “More than I should.”

Greg stamped his out on the ground. “Every one I smoke is always the last one.”

Mycroft chuckled. “Yes, I find I have a certain lack of self-control around cigarettes.”

Greg grinned, raising his eyebrows. “There’s something you can’t control? I can’t believe that.”

Mycroft finished the cigarette, savouring the last drag. “Where would you like to go this evening?” Mycroft asked.

Greg snorted. “You’re letting me decide?”

“I inconvenienced you. I thought it appropriate to let you decide.”

Greg shrugged, thinking. “Pizza?” he asked.

“Pizza?” Mycroft repeated. Greg hesitated. Was Mycroft really a pizza person? Ah, who wasn’t a pizza person?

“Yeah, pizza. You know. Bread, tomatoes, cheese, lots of toppings. I’ll be kind. We’ll go to Pizza Express rather than Pizza Hut.”

They moved into the car and Greg stroked the leather seat. “Why is Pizza Express preferable?” Mycroft asked.

“It’s less greasy.”

Mycroft looked bemused, and said to the driver, “please take us to the closest Pizza Express.”

“Pizza Express, sir?” the driver asked. He sounded surprised. Mycroft Holmes probably didn’t visit chain restaurants very often. If ever. Greg was honoured.

“Apparently,” Mycroft confirmed, fastening his seatbelt.

Greg laughed. “If you want to go somewhere else just say. I’m not fussy.”

“If you recommend Pizza Express then who am I to argue? It has been a long time since I last had pizza.”

Mycroft’s phone went off and he smiled apologetically before answering. Greg watched out of the window, hearing the occasional word Mycroft muttered, although for the most part he was listening and not speaking. They stepped out of the car and into the restaurant in Russia Row.

They were shown to a table beside the window. It wasn’t too busy, though there were other people already enjoying meals nearby.

Greg didn’t bother with the menu. He knew what he’d have already. He instead watched as Mycroft assessed his options. His face kept a constant neutral expression, except for the second he licked his lips. “Do you have any recommendations?” he asked, looking up at Greg.

“You’ve got to have the dough balls. It’s Sloppy Giuseppe for me, every time. It’s got beef.” One look at Mycroft’s face suggested he wouldn’t order something with the word ‘sloppy’ in its title.

A new waitress walked over to take their drink orders, and Greg chose a beer while Mycroft said he’d ‘risk’ one of their wines.

Greg put the menus back in the stand. “So. Why did you want to want to meet?” he asked. 

“Sherlock spoke very briefly to our parents on the phone. They said he sounded quite ill and asked if he was looking after himself. Of course, I haven’t been near him in months, so this was news to me. I wanted to know if it was just a cold.”

Greg sighed, fiddling with his napkin. “I don’t know. I saw him about two weeks ago and he had this cough, and he looked a bit pale and stuff, but I just thought he was a bit under the weather. But I saw him tonight and he’s still got the cough. He said he’s fine. I don’t know. He didn’t seem better than the last time I saw him.”

“He doesn’t live in the most hygienic conditions.”

“No,” Greg agreed. “I was going to suggest he looked for a new place, but he just brushed it off. Without setting fire to the place, I don’t know how to convince him to leave.”

“I don’t suspect arson would be looked upon particularly favourably," Mycroft said, and Greg grinned at the twinkle in his eye. "It sounds as though you and I need to devise a plan.”

“You could just go and talk to him yourself," Greg suggested. 

“I will try,” Mycroft said. “He is unlikely to meet with me, but I will endeavour to appeal to him.” Mycroft accepted the glass of wine from the waitress, smiling charmingly.

“Are you ready to order?” she asked, reaching for her notepad. Greg ordered dough balls for both of them, going for the Sloppy Giuseppe as promised, while Mycroft went for the Four Seasons, a pizza containing a different flavour on each quarter.

“You’re making me nervous,” Greg said when she moved away.

“How so?”

“Just this isn’t your kind of place at all. People wear jeans to this place.”

Mycroft smiled. “I don’t have an agenda against jeans.”

“But do you own a pair?”

“I do not.”

“Have you ever owned a pair?”

“Not that I recall.”

Greg grinned, sipping his beer. “Anyway. Back to your brother. What are we going to do about him? I still reckon you should see him.”

“I’m concerned it would drive him further away.”

“What really did happen between you two?” Greg asked, sitting back in his seat. 

“I wish I knew. I don’t believe it was any particular event. Perhaps I was out of the country for too long. He isolates himself because he knows he ostracises everyone he meets. He can learn everything about a person and doesn’t think it keep it to himself.”

Greg rolled his eyes. He knew that feeling. “He told me my wife’s cheating on me.”

Mycroft looked at him. “I am sorry.” The apology sounded genuine.

“It’s not true,” Greg said.

“No, it is,” Mycroft replied. “I’m just sorry you heard it from Sherlock.”

Greg stared at him open-mouthed. “Jesus Christ," he muttered. 

“If it’s any consolation, most people wouldn’t be able to work it out.”

“And I just got stuck with the two people who are.”

“Quite.”

Greg swallowed, taking a long gulp of beer. “So, come on then. What did I do? How do you know?”

Mycroft took a sip of his drink, sneered at his glass a little after tasting it, but took another drink nonetheless. “Do you really want to know how I know?”

Greg hesitated. Yes, was his instant reaction, but after Sherlock pulled his life apart in front of him in his office it had made him doubt everything he did. He’d already started over-analysing himself. He decided he didn’t want to go through that again. “No, you’re right. I don’t.”

The waitress walked over, setting a plate of dough balls in front of each of them. “I’m going to smell like garlic,” Mycroft said, pressing his lips together as he studied the plate in front of him.

“Who you planning on kissing tonight?” Greg asked, grinning cheekily.

“I’m not planning on kissing anybody.”

“I know you don’t have a wife. Have you ever been married?” Greg asked, picking up a dough ball and dipping it in the butter. He wanted to grin as he watched Mycroft stare at his fingers being used for eating before picking up a knife and fork to cut his food.

“No, I have never been married.”

“Not interested or…?”

“I’m not interested in having a wife, no.”

“Husband then?” Greg looked up from his plate when Mycroft took a few moments to answer the question.

“I’m yet to find someone who I could spend my life with. But I’m not lonely. My work takes up an awful lot of my time. As does keeping an eye on my brother.”

“Bloody Sherlock,” Greg muttered, stuffing an entire dough ball into his mouth. He chewed on it thoughtfully. “He needs a new place. With a proper bed and heating.”

“You mentioned you would be willing to take him in for a time?”

“I would. But no one would want to be in my house right now, it’s too tense.”

“Have you confronted her?”

“No,” Greg admitted. “But it wouldn’t help, that’s for sure. She’d deny it anyway.”

“You don’t seem too upset,” Mycroft said.

“No, I am. I just sort of accept things like they are. No point dwelling on it. She’s done it now, according to you and Sherlock. So what do I do? Spend every day fighting it out? What’s the point?”

“To make amends.”

“She’s all I know,” Greg said. “It’s not perfect. It’s not been perfect for years, but we deal with each other.”

Mycroft cut a dough ball in half, and Greg watched as he dipped it in the butter. He chewed it, swallowed it. “That wasn’t quite as bad as I was expecting.”

Greg grinned at him. “I didn’t bring you here to poison you or anything.”

Mycroft smiled, sipping his wine. “No, I didn’t think that was your intention.”

Greg finished the last of his dough balls. “I’ve got to admit. I don’t really understand what’s going on here.”

“Going on?” Mycroft asked, looking at him. 

Greg shrugged. “It’s like you’ve employed me to look after your brother. I think you should give it a go sometime.”

“I care about Sherlock.”

“You know, maybe you should tell him that rather than me.”

“He doesn’t listen to me.”

“He doesn’t really listen to me either.”

Mycroft forced a smile, cutting into his food. Greg took a long sip of his beer, looking around the restaurant. “I worry,” Mycroft said after he finished his starter. “Since we were children, I only wanted the best for him.”

“He’s lucky to have a brother.” Mycroft looked at him, confusion evident on his face as Greg finished his beer. “You’re analysing me,” Greg said. “Stop it.”

“I don’t need to ‘analyse’ you, Greg. I’ve had you worked out from the first day we met.”

Greg folded his arms over his chest. “Oh yeah?”

“Yes. You’re not particularly complicated.”

Greg pretended to frown. “Sometimes I don’t know whether I like you or not.”

Mycroft smiled. “You enjoy puzzles.”

Greg grinned. “That’s obvious. I’m a policeman. Of course I like puzzles.”

“You prefer to work on paper than on a computer.”

Greg snorted. “Oh come on, I bitch about technology all the time. You can do better than this.”

Mycroft sat back in his seat, resting his elbows on the table and his chin on his hands. Greg watched him, bracing himself.

Mycroft began to speak. “You have never particularly wanted children because they remind you of being an unhappy child. You dislike enclosed spaces. You settle for the circumstances of your life. You don’t form attachments to people mostly due to your background of living in care homes and with an assortment of foster parents. Sherlock reminds you of your own failures and shortcomings and every case you never solved. You are not entirely heterosexual. You are on occasion reckless, impatient, and do not think much about the future. You are a workaholic. When you close your eyes at night you are haunted by the cases you couldn’t solve. And yet you resent those who care too much. You think them weak.”

Greg stared at Mycroft. He reached out, grabbed the man’s wine and downed the glass. “And you are on occasion incredibly impulsive,” Mycroft continued, looking at the place mat where his glass had been. Greg set the empty glass back down as Mycroft continued. “And you do like me. And you like Sherlock. Because you don’t have any friends and we are far more interesting than your colleagues. Your wife is the only person you let get close to you. And even she knows very little about you. Was that better, Greg? Please do correct me if I got any of that wrong.”

Greg looked up as the waitress came to collect their plates. He ordered them each another drink. That was a long list. Too long. Wait. “How did you know I wasn’t totally straight?” Greg asked. He’d not been with a man since a few weeks before he met Caroline. He didn’t even think she knew about that.

“Ah, that took a little longer, I admit,” Mycroft said. “The waiter at the last restaurant we attended together. Your face displayed all the classic signs of attraction.”

Greg shook his head. “You’re a nutter,” he said. Mycroft frowned at him. “You know what I think, Mycroft?” Mycroft watched him, eyes boring holes into his head. “I think you don’t have any friends either. I think I’m the closest thing you’ve got.”

Mycroft's lips pressed together, a steely gaze on his face. “How do you come to that conclusion?”

“You only talk about Sherlock. You won’t or can’t talk about your work. And you let me bring you to Pizza Express. I’m going to use the loo.” Greg stood up. “You got one thing wrong.”

“What was that?”

“I’m not haunted by cases I didn’t solve. It’s just one case.”

Mycroft made an ‘oh’ face as Greg picked his phone up from the table and walked to the toilets. Despite the beer he’d just finished and the wine he’d just downed, he didn’t particularly need a piss. He just needed to get away from the intensity.

Not easy being told the truth, he thought.

He looked in the mirror, touched the wedding band on his left hand. He hated feeling exposed. And that was exactly how he felt around both of the brothers, but worse around Mycroft somehow because the man looked at you like he could see through you. Like he could see into your memories. The man was ridiculous. But how do you trust someone who knew everything about you that quickly?

And unlike Sherlock who seemed to deal in facts, Mycroft seemed to analyse how events shaped a person. How his parents - lack of, for a good portion of his childhood - had led to where he was now. And Greg knew he didn’t like that analysis one bit.

He walked back out of the toilets, glad to see their food and drinks had arrived. Mycroft had yet to begin his pizza. “You can start,” Greg said. Greg grabbed the pizza cutter, cutting it into slices. Mycroft frowned and started cutting it with a knife and fork. “You know that’s a crime against pizza, right?” Greg said. “It’s finger food.” Mycroft looked at him distastefully, and he continued to eat it his way. Greg laughed and ate his own with his hands.

He finished his food, letting out a contented sound and patting his stomach. “Your restaurant was brilliant,” Greg said. “But this is miles better.”

“It does have a certain… rustic charm, I admit.”

“So you’d come again?”

“I don’t believe I’d bring an associate here. But I could be tempted to join you on another occasion. If you would ever be so inclined.”

“You use too many words," Greg told him. Mycroft opened his mouth to say something and closed it. “It’s not an insult. You just say words. Lots of them.”

“In my job, I on occasion must negotiate and delegate. Words are my work.”

“I don’t believe you. I still think you’re James Bond.”

Mycroft chuckled. “I’m an unlikely ally for you, Greg Lestrade. I realise what you are doing for Sherlock is against the law. But I will do all in my power to enable work with him can continue.”

“And just how much is it in your power?”

Mycroft sipped his wine. Still not willing to talk about work then. Greg found it intrigued him. “Look after Sherlock," Mycroft said simply. 

“I am. I’ll get him out of that house, alright? I don’t know how because he’s a stubborn bastard but I’ll sort it.”

Mycroft’s static expression changed, his lips slacking. “I forgot something,” he murmured.

Greg looked surprised. “Forgot what?”

Mycroft lifted his chin and looked directly at Greg. “You are incredibly generous. And a far better man than Sherlock deserves.”

Greg felt his cheeks warm and he looked down at the table. “I don’t really know what to say to that.”

“Take the compliment, Greg. Just take the compliment.”

They didn’t say much from then on, Greg hastily paying the bill. There were two cars already parked by the curb when they walked outside, and Mycroft’s assistant held the door open for Greg to get in.

“So, I’ll let you know what happens with Sherlock’s new home then," Greg said as he sat down, chewing his lip. 

“Please.”

“Night.”

“Goodnight, Greg.”

The assistant shut the door and Greg watched where Mycroft stood on the pavement as the car pulled away. He looked strangely small beside the lamp post.


	8. Told My Troubles To The River

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Spooky831, Feathers and Anom for your comments.

_November, 2005_

Greg arrived home in a taxi after a night at the pub with a few of his team. He had intended to go for one pint, but he ended up staying much later. He needed more self-control, he decided. He always said one pint and it would become four. He stumbled when he got to the door, gripping the handle and laughing to himself. His head span.

He managed to find his key under his phone and wallet in his pocket and opened the door. He nearly fell through it, but managed to hang on. The light was still on. He frowned. “Caroline?” he called.

There was no reply.

He shuffled to the sink, grabbing a glass from the washing up rack and filling it. He savoured the cold liquid. Best thing about winter, he thought. Cold water straight from the tap.

He heard the bedroom door open and he turned to face Caroline. She was still wearing a shirt and black trousers as though she’d only got back home. Straight from work and straight to her lover’s house? “Greg. Can we talk?” she asked.

“Ah, not now,” Greg said.

“You’re tipsy.”

“An excellent deduction,” Greg grinned, opened a cupboard to hunt for some crisps. He was beginning to sound like Sherlock. Bugger.

Caroline made an exasperated sound. “Greg, I’m leaving.”

Greg frowned. His fingers tightened around the handle on the cupboard door. He’d known it was coming. He’d seen it days ago. She’d got quiet. Some of her clothes had disappeared. Greg hadn’t expected it to be so soon. He swallowed. “Where are you going?” he asked, not looking at her.

“My parents’,” she said quietly. “For a while.”

“Then you going to live with your boyfriend?” Greg turned to look at her. His head spun a little as his eyes fought to catch up with the booze in his brain. She stared at him. “I know, Caroline. I’m not an idiot. Who is he?”

“You don’t know him.”

“Who is he?” he repeated, trying to keep the volume of his voice down. 

“It doesn’t matter. How did you know?”

Greg pulled a seat out at the kitchen table and sat down, rubbing his face. “Sherlock figured it out.”

Caroline frowned. “I’ve never even met him.”

“Yeah, well, he’s a bloody genius. Course once he mentioned it, I saw it too. Couldn’t help it.”

Caroline took a seat opposite him. They stared at each other. “You should be angry,” she said after a few moments. “You should be throwing things and telling me to get out. But you’re not.”

Greg shook his head. “I’ve known about the affair since September.”

“That’s not what I mean,” Caroline said. She reached over and touched his arm. Greg pulled it back sharply. “When did we stop being in love?” she asked.

Greg looked down at the table. He felt sick. He didn't know if it was because of the breaking up or the beer. “I dunno,” he said.

“We just… we just lost it somewhere,” she said. “We went through the motions, I think. And we let it stay that way because it was easy.”

“Why did you cheat on me?”

“He makes me feel important.”

“You’re important to me,” Greg said quietly, looking up at her.

“Not as important as your work is to you. We’ve been married 16 years. But the last five years have been… we were kidding ourselves the whole time. I’m 35, Greg. I want children. I want…” she trailed off.

“You want the things I can’t give you,” Greg murmured.

“You’re my best friend, babe,” Caroline said. “We were barely adults when we met.”

Greg looked at her, feeling as though his whole world had begun to crumble. “Why now?” he asked.

“This guy. He. It’s just different, Greg. It’s just better. You know how we don’t even talk anymore-”

“-We talk.”

“No, Greg, we don’t. Not about us. Not about the future. And we both know why that is. It’s because if we talked about us, we would have ended up having the exact conversation we’re having now. And we’ve spent five years avoiding the obvious issue. And I’m running out of time to have children. That’s it. Ultimately, that’s it.”

“When are you going?”

“Now. Tonight.” Greg swallowed. “I love you, babe,” Caroline continued. “But we both knew it was coming. And I know you did. Because you’ve not mentioned you knew about this other guy until tonight. And you never keep your feelings to yourself, you’re just out with it, get it out. But not this time. Because we were delaying this conversation. But I can’t do it anymore.”

Greg looked at her, as her eyes filled with tears. He sipped his water. “Are we getting a divorce?” he asked her. Divorce. What a failure.

Caroline wiped her eyes. “I hadn’t given that any thoughts really.”

Greg nodded. He bit his top lip. He pressed his eyes closed for a moment before looking at her. Her bottom lip trembled. “I know you’re right,” he murmured. “But I don’t like it.”

“I know.”

“I want to fight for this marriage, Caroline.”

“I know,” she repeated. “But I don’t think there’s anything left to fight for.”

Greg finished his water. He ignored the tightness he felt in his chest. “Do you need a hand with your stuff?”

She shook her head before standing up. She rested her hand on his shoulder. Greg looked away. “I’ll be in touch,” she whispered.

Greg stared at the table as she wandered back into the bedroom. He didn’t move. Just sat, with his empty glass. 10 minutes later, he heard a suitcase being wheeled through to the hallway. “Where do you want me to put the key?” she asked.

“Keep it for now,” Greg said, refusing to look at her. “Just in case.”

The door opened. And then she walked through it.

Greg watched his watch tick over to 11.23pm. He listened to the emptiness. The silence.

He stood and poured himself another glass of water. He knew he needed to go to bed, but he couldn’t bring himself to look at the bedroom with her stuff missing. So he switched off the light and took himself to the sofa.

He pulled the throw over himself, and turned the television on. He fell into a restless sleep with football highlights accompanying him on a low volume throughout the night.

Greg woke with a crick in his neck and a feeling of utter numbness. He forced himself not to replay the previous night, and he slipped his wedding ring off and put it down on the counter.

He got into the shower, turning the temperature up slightly more so it burned, just a little. He felt the space on his finger where his ring had been. It was lighter somehow. Missing something.

Greg was expecting to feel something. Sad, angry, despondent. Anything which wasn’t this feeling of nothingness. He didn’t feel as though he’d lost anything. But he thought that was how it should have been. His wife of 16 years had just walked out on him. On them. And he felt nothing either way.

He got into work and sat down at his desk.

He scrolled through his emails. He had one message from a journalist who wanted to interview him about a murder case. ‘After it goes through court’, Greg typed back. He had some random chain messages with humorous pictures, but they weren’t really making him feel better.

He reached for his snack drawer, rifling through it until he found a packet of crisps. Oh good God, he’d have to do the supermarket shop, he realised. He hadn’t lived on his own since he was 22, barely out of university.

He wouldn’t say he was very messy, but lived in organised chaos at times. He knew where every paper and file on his desk was (good job too, because he could never keep track of documents on his computer). But anyone taking a look at his desk would say it was untidy. Desperately so. Where was the best place to do food shopping now?

There was a knock on the door. He looked up as it opened, and Mycroft Holmes walked through it. Greg raised his eyebrows. “What’s up?” he asked.

Mycroft looked at him. Studying. “Oh, I am sorry,” he said after a few moments.

Greg looked down at himself. What the hell did he do to give himself away? Was there a sign above his head? How bloody transparent was he?

Mycroft shook his head. “You didn’t do anything,” he said. “But you aren’t wearing your wedding ring.”

Greg sighed. Oh. That was obvious. “Yeah. Last night.”

Mycroft took a seat on the other side of the desk. “I am sorry,” he replied. 

Greg shrugged. “16 years. 16 bloody years and she just grabbed her bag and went.” Ah. So there was the anger. Greg rubbed his face. “I’m not even surprised. Actually, I’m glad.” Oh. Relief. There was an emotion he hadn’t expected, but it was quite nice to have. “I mean, how long did I put up with her cheating? Wish I’d confronted her when I got the chance.” Mycroft continued to watch him from across the desk. “Sorry,” Greg said. “I’m done. You don’t want to listen to my crap.”

“On the contrary,” Mycroft said. “I wish I had something appropriate to say.”

“Yeah. Yeah, me too. Not you. _I_ wish I had something appropriate to say. What do you want anyway?”

“If this isn’t a good time, I shan’t impose.”

“Impose all you want.” Greg said. “I need the distraction.”

“I’m afraid I’m here on business,” Mycroft said.

Greg leaned forward on his desk, a small smile on the corner of his mouth. “You’re here on work? Gonna let me into some secret spy mission?”

“I have no knowledge of any secret spy missions, Greg,” Mycroft said. Greg grinned and Mycroft let out a small smile. “Nonetheless, your team found the body of a Russian woman at a bus stop two days ago.”

“Uh. Yeah. Yeah, they did. What about it?”

“You need to stop looking into it. I am here to take the files from you.”

Greg leaned back into his seat, folding his arms across his chest. “No way.”

“It will not go onto your department’s statistics, if that is your concern,” Mycroft said. “I really must insist.”

“And I really must have proof. What the hell is a man with a ‘minor position’ – yeah right, by the way – in the Department of Transport want with the files of a dead Russian woman?”

“I could have sent one of my assistants to meet with you. Instead, I came myself because I believed we trusted each other. Our roles intersect more than you can possibly imagine, Detective Inspector. The woman was, after all, found at a bus stop.”

Greg burst out laughing. “That’s your proof? Pull the other one."

Mycroft smiled slightly. “I do, of course, have the appropriate documentation to prove to you I require these files.” He reached into his briefcase, pulling out some papers. He slid them over the table towards Greg.

They had already been signed by the force’s Commander. Greg looked up at him. “Mycroft.”

“Detective Inspector.”

“I don’t like this.”

“I know,” Mycroft said.

“I don’t like the Government messing in my cases. I don’t like the Government mucking in with the police full stop.”

“I know.”

“It feels dirty.”

“It isn’t.”

“Why am I doing this?”

“Because your Commander told you to. And because I came in person to offer my sincere apologies I must take this case from you.”

Greg raised his eyebrows. “And let me guess. You don’t normally come in person?”

“I detest field work,” Mycroft said. “Thankfully, it seems to be decreasing. And believe me. This visit is very much beneath me.” Greg glared. Charming. “Except for the fact it is you,” Mycroft added. “And because I think we have found a mutual respect for each other, I thought it only appropriate I saw you myself and explained.”

“You haven’t really explained much, Mycroft.” Mycroft didn’t reply. Greg sighed. “Fine.” He flicked through the folders on his desk and handed it over. Mycroft continued to sit, watching Greg. “What?” Greg asked impatiently.

“I’m waiting for a phone call to say the files have been deleted from the computer.”

Greg raised his eyebrows. “You what?”

“I’m afraid I cannot disclose more than that.” Mycroft picked his phone out of his jacket pocket and looked at it. He set it down on the table.

Greg stared at him. "You’re really going to stay here until you get a phone call?” Greg asked, raising his eyebrows.

“That is correct.”

“You know I’m pissed off at you right now, right?”

“Yes, that is quite clear.” Greg rolled his eyes and opened his emails. “Would you like me to make it up to you?” Mycroft asked. Greg looked at him, stunned. Mycroft smiled.

“Why?” Greg asked.

“I assumed you might like to share a dinner sometime. Not to worry if that isn’t the case.”

“No, that would… I’d like that.”

Mycroft's smile grew wider. “Excellent. It will have to be in a fortnight’s time, I’m afraid.”

“I can wait,” Greg said. He glanced back at his screen and then back at Mycroft. His frustration at the situation, whatever was going on, was beginning to fade away. Mycroft had offered him an olive branch, and Greg decided it was only polite to do likewise. “Do you want a coffee? I need one, my brain’s fried.”

“Yes, I did think you were moderately hungover,” Mycroft said. Greg laughed, still amazed at Mycroft and Sherlock’s deduction skills. “A coffee would be splendid.”

Greg couldn’t help but grin as he stood up and picked his mug up off the desk, reading it all over again.

“What’s the joke on that cup?” Mycroft asked, looking at it.

Greg smiled. “What did the fish say when he posted bail?”

Mycroft shook his head. “What did the fish say?”

“I’m off the hook,” Greg grinned. Mycroft smiled. “It was a birthday present from Sally.”

“An appropriate joke.”

“I think she got it from Poundland. Bail is spelt b-a-l-e on it.” Mycroft chuckled and Greg grinned back at him, watching how warm his face appeared when he laughed. “I’ll just find you a mug. One sec.”

He walked out of the office and headed for the kitchen. He opened the cupboard, hunting for a suitable mug. Half naked women probably not good. Would Mycroft want to drink out of a Manchester United mug? Pink? Wasn’t really his colour. God, why was he stressing about a mug? Spending so much time being ‘deduced’ was taking its toll. Just grab one.

He closed his eyes and let his hand reach out to touch a mug. It was a cartoon from The Book Of Bunny Suicides. Greg chuckled to himself and walked back into his office with it. Mycroft was tapping away on his phone. “How’d you have your coffee?” he asked.

“Black, one sugar, please.”

Greg found his coffee, poured the water into the mugs and added Mycroft’s sugar. He put it down on the desk in front of him. Mycroft put his phone down and looked at the mug. He pulled a disgruntled face. “Greg?”

“Yeah?”

“Why is there a rabbit electrocuting himself on this mug?”

“It’s from the bunny suicide book.”

Mycroft stared. “Bunny suicides?”

“It’s just a book of rabbits killing themselves in inventive ways.”

“But why?”

“It’s just a book of cartoons.” Greg sat back down and laughed at Mycroft’s expression. “Seriously. It’s just a mug.”

“With an accompanying book?”

“I think the book came first.”

Mycroft laughed. Greg found himself watching that expression again. His teeth, the glint in his eye. Mycroft eyed him with curiosity, and Greg smiled and glanced away. He sipped his own drink. “Thanks,” Greg said after a few minutes. “For coming by. Rather than send a minion.”

Mycroft smiled. “I think they’d take great offence at being referred to as minions.”

“Fine. Underlings,” Greg corrected, smiling as Mycroft laughed. Greg grinned back. “So, when you’re back from wherever, where are we going for dinner? Pizza Hut?” Greg asked, stretching his legs out under his desk.

“I believe it’s my turn to choose.”

“You’re going to pick somewhere I need to wear a tie, aren’t you?”

“Not at all.”

Greg laughed. “Yeah right,” he said.

“I assure you, I will find somewhere you will feel more than comfortable. Are there any cuisines you don’t enjoy?”

Greg shook his head. “Long as it’s got meat on it, I’m pretty easy.”

Mycroft watched him, his eyes narrowing slightly. “What are you going to do?” he asked after a minute.

“Do?”

“About your marriage.”

Greg sighed. “I dunno. Throw myself into work, I guess.”

“But you knew it was coming.”

“Yeah,” Greg confirmed. “Yeah, I knew.”

Mycroft nodded, sipping his coffee. “I wish I could offer you some sort of advice, but I’m afraid I have very little experience of these matters to draw upon.”

“It’s alright,” Greg said. “I wouldn’t know what to say either. You don’t have any advice about food shopping do you?”

Mycroft frowned. “Food shopping advice?”

“Yeah, like what to stock my cupboards with.”

Mycroft smiled. “I’m afraid I cannot offer advice on that either.”

Greg grinned. “Thought as much. I’ve not done it since I was at uni. I can’t even remember if I know how to cook.”

“I find putting pasta in a saucepan and adding water is often an easy place to start,” Mycroft said.

“You cook?” Greg asked.

“Rarely.” Mycroft looked at his phone. Greg saw Sally walk past his office and frown at him through the glass. Mycroft looked around as she walked by and put his mug down on the table. “Right. My apologies. Back to work,” he said, standing up slowly and walking to the door.

“Don’t you need to wait for a phone call or something?” Greg asked.

“Oh, the files were deleted while you were in the kitchen. Take care of yourself. Good day, Greg.”

“Oh… oh, yeah, later. And you too,” Greg muttered, staring at Mycroft’s retreating back as he realised the man had sat with him for the past 15 minutes for no reason.


	9. Language Of Fools

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MoonRiver - I cannot explain how much your comments keep me going. And Velma - I hope this is to your liking too.  
> To those people who have left kudos and are subscribing to this, thank you so much!

_December 2005_

The call came at 2.15pm.

Greg was sat along the full length of his sofa having just devoured a jacket potato. He was thoroughly enjoying his day off. Not that he’d really been taking it as a day off, as his mind was running at 100 miles per hour.

He grabbed his phone when it started ringing, expecting someone from work. He didn’t recognise the number but he answered anyway. “Greg Lestrade.”

“Hello Greg, my name is Dr Stewart Caulson, I’m calling from The Royal London Hospital. We have a friend of yours in hospital in quite a bad way, we would like you to come in.”

“A friend?” Greg hunted furiously for the remote to mute the telly.

“Sherlock Holmes,” the doctor said.

“Sherlock?” Greg felt his heart drop.

“He asked for you specifically.”

Greg jumped up, hunting for his car keys, wallet, jacket. Asked for him specifically… so he was alive… “Shit, what happened?”

“Are you family, sir?”

“No I’m not but if he asked for me-”

“I’ll confirm when you come in.”

“I’ll be right over.”

Greg hung his phone up, pushing it into his pocket and putting on the first pair of shoes he could find. With a sudden thought, he pulled his phone back out, calling Mycroft. “Please pick up, please pick up…”

“Greg,” Mycroft replied. “What a-“

“No time. Sherlock’s at hospital. In The Royal London Hospital. I don’t know what happened, I just got a call,” he said quickly.

“What?” Greg heard the panic in Mycroft’s voice, although he masked it well.

“I’m on my way there now,” Greg said. “Are you even in London?”

“No, I’m not. But I will be there as soon as possible. Take care of him, Greg.”

“I’ll do my best.” Greg hung up, ensuring to lock the door as he left and ran down to his car. Every bit of traffic in his way made him swear loudly, and he tried to ignore the pounding in his chest. Not that it was particularly easy to ignore.

Greg parked illegally. He knew he was doing it, but right now he didn’t particularly care as he stopped on the double-yellows. He’d take the fine. He knew the hospital car park would be packed anyway. He got out, quickly locked up and jogged to the front entrance and to the reception. “I’m here to see Sherlock Holmes. He was admitted a while ago, I don’t know what department.”

“Who are you sir?” the receptionist asked, a bored tone to her voice.

“Greg Lestrade.”

“Are you family?”

Greg hesitated. He pulled out his badge. “Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade, and I need to see Sherlock Holmes.”

“One moment, sir,” she said, typing into his computer. “He’s in intensive care. That’s through those doors, to the second right.”

Greg muttered a thanks, running to where he was told. He bumped into a doctor on the way.

“I’m here to see Sherlock Holmes,” he said. “I’m Greg Lestrade.”

“Ah, Mr Lestrade. Yes. I’m Dr Caulson. Would you like to take a seat?”

Greg shook his head. “Just tell me what’s happened.”

“Sherlock took an unspecified amount of heroin, mixed with what he tells us is a minute amount of strychnine. We’re treating him with fluids and anticonvulsant medication. We have had to intubate to allow him to breath freely when the convulsions got worse. At the moment he is stable, and we’ve given him treatment quickly enough that we think he’ll be okay.”

Greg stared at the doctor. “He took strychnine?” Furious was not the word.

“He did it standing outside the hospital and immediately admitted himself.”

Greg rubbed his face. “You are kidding me? I’m going to bloody kill him. Is he going to be okay?”

“There shouldn’t be any long-term effects, but obviously we’re monitoring him very carefully. The next few hours are critical. But it has a half-life of 10 hours, so in a few days it should be out of his system.”

Greg took a deep breath. “God. His brother’s on his way. Can I see him?”

“In a little while. Obviously, we will have to contact the police in regards to the heroin…”

Greg showed him his badge. “That isn’t necessary.”

The doctor hesitated before nodding. “Understood.”

Greg found the seats in the corridor, drawing out his phone to call Mycroft.

Mycroft answered after just one ring. “Greg. How is he?”

“Stable. Intensive care. He took heroin mixed with strychnine.”

“I’m sorry?” Mycroft asked, disbelieving.

“He did it standing outside the hospital, fuck knows why. He admitted himself straight after apparently.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Neither do I. Where are you?”

“Flying over Scotland. I should be an hour at most. Will I see you there?”

“Yeah. I’ll be here,” Greg agreed. “He’s on a drip, breathing stuff, doctors said they treated him quickly enough.”

Mycroft paused on the end of the line. “I must go,” he said. “Please keep me informed.”

“Promise,” Greg said. He hung up the phone and stared at the blank wall in front of him. He felt responsible. Like he’d shoved the needle in Sherlock’s arm himself. God knows what he was thinking. He wasn’t thinking. That was the most obvious explanation. He was totally and utterly stupid.

Greg thought to how he’d been the one the hospital had called - not Mycroft or Sherlock’s parents. Sherlock was an adult, supposedly. But Greg felt like he was looking after a child. One that needed a lot of care. One that had a tendency to get into trouble. He was flawed. Deeply flawed. And Greg knew he wouldn’t leave this hospital until he was given the all-clear.

He text his boss, saying a family member was in hospital and he needed to be there. It was lie. Like he had any family now. But his superiors didn’t know that. He continued to watch the blank wall ahead of him, listening to the very faint beeping of machines and talk behind the door. The doctor walked out. “You can see him.”

Greg stood up and followed him into the room. “Oh Jesus, Sherlock,” Greg muttered, sitting down on the white plastic seat beside the bed.

He looked at the tube leading to Sherlock’s throat, the wires linked up to machines, drips. “What did you do with the needle?” he asked suddenly.

“Security took it.”

“I need that to get to New Scotland Yard and passed onto Bart’s. It might be evidence in a case I’m working on,” Greg said. We’re working on. Shit, Sherlock, what the fuck were you thinking? “When do we know if the treatment’s working?”

“In the next 10 hours, give or take. It’s not as bad as it could be, but it could be better too. I’d say we’re over the worst.” Greg looked at his watch. 4.23pm. And 10 hours to go.

“I need to call his brother again,” Greg murmured.

The doctor nodded, stepping out and Greg found Mycroft’s number. The man answered immediately. “Greg. What’s happening?”

“I’m in with him now. He looks… He needs to get through the next 10 hours. Give or take.” Greg let out a long breath.

“I’ll be there soon. Greg…” Greg heard the hesitation on the other end of the line.

“Yeah?”

“Don’t leave him.”

“I’ll be here, alright? I’m not going anywhere.”

“Thank you.” Mycroft hung up and Greg closed his eyes, rubbing his face with his hands. He tried to think back to the last conversation they’d had, how he’d acted, what he’d said. He thought about the rat run case - that was what Sherlock had taken to calling it.

There had to be some really logical explanation for this mess. Something that explained it. No one just took a poisoned substance and then demanded treatment straight away. He didn’t want to die. Greg was sure he didn’t want to die.

When Mycroft walked in, flanked by his assistant, Greg was sat with an array of leaflets the doctor had brought him when Greg said he needed reading material. But, he had added, I’m not leaving this room to get them.

Greg stood up, watching Mycroft as he looked at his brother. His face was strained, his usually immaculate suit with creases in it. “Oh, Sherlock,” he murmured. He turned to his assistant. “Can you leave us please?” he said to her.

She left the room without a word. “I’ll just be outside,” Greg said, pushing the chair toward him.

“No,” Mycroft said firmly. Greg frowned at him.

“No?”

“No, you can stay if you wish.”

Greg slowly sank back down in the chair. Mycroft took the one at the opposite side of the bed.

“10 hours?” Mycroft asked.

Greg looked at his watch. “It was 4.23pm when he said that. So about nine hours now.”

“Nine hours,” Mycroft repeated.

“What’s your assistant’s name?” Greg asked after several moments.

“Anthea.” Greg just nodded and looked back down at the leaflets he was reading.

_Eight hours._

Anthea walked in with a drink for them both. They hadn’t spoken in the whole time. Mycroft’s was in a blue mug, Greg’s in a polystyrene cup. “They serve tea in china, but not the coffee,” she said by way of an explanation. She walked back out.

Greg burnt his tongue and pulled a face. Mycroft offered him a condescending half-smile in return.

_Seven and a half hours._

Greg had moved his chair around to sit beside Mycroft. Greg was doing the crossword, Mycroft was talking to his parents on the phone. He didn’t indicate anything was wrong. Apparently he always rang them this time on a Tuesday, just before his last meeting of the day and before they went for a meal out.

_Seven hours._

Mycroft had spent the last fifteen minutes on the phone stood outside the room. Greg could only hear the rumble of his voice, but no words.

He saw him through the window pane talking distractedly. Mycroft looked back at Sherlock through the glass as he talked. He caught Greg’s eye.

Wondering if it wasn’t his place to be here, Greg looked away.

_Six hours._

“Look, I’ll go if you want,” Greg finally said after wrestling with his need to keep an eye on Sherlock and the feeling he wasn’t wanted. “Keep me up to date by text.”

“You don’t want you to go, so stay if you wish,” Mycroft said, looking at him.

“I feel like I’m getting in the way.”

“I find your company strangely soothing. Though you really must stop looking at me as though I’m about to break.”

Greg looked down at his knees.

_Five hours._

Another of Mycroft’s assistants brought them an elaborate sandwich each. Greg thought it was the best he’d ever tasted.

He hadn’t eaten in so long that his hands were shaking. After eating it, he felt a bit sick.

_Four hours._

Greg watched the doctors checking vital signs. “We’re pulling back on the sedatives,” one said. “Should be able to take him off intubation shortly.”

_Three hours._

Sherlock was back on the sedatives. The convulsions were no better than they had been when he’d first been showing symptoms shortly before Greg had arrived at the hospital.

Greg was stood by the wall, watching, his teeth clenched. Mycroft had his head in his hands.

_Two hours._

Mycroft told Greg the final answers on his crossword. Greg had started doodling on the paper, drawing moustaches on politicians. He hadn’t meant to make the Prime Minister look like Hitler.

The doctors took Sherlock off intubation again. This time he showed improvement.

Mycroft showed no expression.

_One hour and a half._

Mycroft had relaxed a little when the doctors said all the signs were good. Greg asked what he was planning for Christmas.

“I despise Christmas,” Mycroft said.

“So do I,” Greg replied.

“Yes. Yes, I suppose you would,” Mycroft said, looking at him. Analysing. Greg didn’t respond.

_One hour._

Sherlock had opened his eyes and had tried to speak. His throat was clearly sore from the tube, as he whispered ‘interesting’.

Mycroft said nothing as he shook his head and left the room. Greg had far less patience. “You idiot! You could have died!”

“That’s why I did it outside a hospital.” Sherlock touched his throat, wincing.

“Why did you… forget it, I don’t care right now. I’m going to check on your brother.”

Sherlock didn’t reply and Greg stormed out to find him. 

Greg found Mycroft in the family waiting room, and watched him from a distance as he stared out at the window, his hands hanging by his side. “If I’d known what he was going to do…” Greg started.

“You couldn’t have done,” Mycroft said, his voice emotionless. “Sherlock keeps everyone in the dark. He doesn’t think about anyone else. He just does what he thinks is best.”

Greg sat down in one of the sofas, wincing when he felt a spring dig into his back. “Are you alright?” he asked. Stupid question really.

“I’m fine,” Mycroft said stiffly. “Now Sherlock has pulled through the worst, I suppose I had better get back to work.”

“I’ll keep better eye on him,” Greg said.

Mycroft turned to look at him. “I don’t believe this is your fault. Don’t feel responsible. You’re not his minder.”

“Neither are you,” Greg said. “He’s an adult. I know he doesn’t act like it half the time, but he’s not 15, he’s nearly double that. And if wants to kill himself, he should just bloody go and do it.” Mycroft raised his eyebrows. “Christ, Mycroft,” Greg said, standing up. “I don’t mean that. I wouldn’t have rushed over here if I meant that. I care about him. And not just because he helps with cases, I like him more than that. He drives me up the wall, but he’s alright.”

Greg watched Mycroft. Felt him staring him down. He took a moment to wonder how many had cowered to that stare. “It isn’t your fault,” Greg finally said. “There was nothing you could do to stop him doing that,” he added, taking a hesitant step towards Mycroft. His eyes continued to pierce through him. “He’s an idiot. It’s not your fault,” Greg repeated.

“I’m aware.”

He doesn’t seem aware, Greg thought as he watched the older Holmes. And then he saw that look he’d seen in Sherlock only once or twice. The flash of vulnerability, that look in his eyes that said ‘reassure me that I’m right’. Because you can’t spend your entire life just being right, Greg thought, you need someone to confirm it, to tell you it’s true.

Greg took a few more steps towards Mycroft as Mycroft turned back to to the window. “He’s okay,” Greg said. “You didn’t let him down.” Greg finally reached touching distance of the man in front of him. He paused, knowing he could stretch out and put a hand on his shoulder.

Is this a man who would turn in towards a touch? Or is this a man who would turn and break his neck if he so much as moved a little closer? But he thought he’d take that risk. He had never been one to back down.

He reached out, touched Mycroft’s shoulder, watched the man noticeably stiffen for a second before letting out a slow breath. He was not pressing in towards the touch but not moving away from it either. Reassured, Greg rubbed his hand against Mycroft’s shoulder, feeling the soft wool beneath his fingers.

Mycroft turned his head and looked at him.

And once again he had the same reaction he thought many a man must have had when they were stared down by Mycroft Holmes. The reaction to cower, the reaction to leave as swiftly as possible, potentially without turning their back to him and maybe even bowing a little.

But Greg cowered to no one. He hadn’t cowered to anyone since he was six years old and realised he could fight back even when he was pinned in a corner by an older boy. And he would never cower to a Holmes. They were both so self-important it felt good to bring them down to earth occasionally.

So Greg held his gaze. And Mycroft held it back.

And without even thinking it through - he was doing too much not thinking, Greg thought later - he stepped forward. His hand moved from its position on Mycroft’s shoulder and slid it down his arm. And there he left it resting, his hand almost clinging, midway down his bicep.

“It’s not your fault,” Greg said again, watching the man. Mycroft stayed quiet. But Greg didn’t move his hand. In fact, he moved ever so slightly closer, his thumb rubbing against Mycroft’s arm.

Mycroft lowered his head a little, closing his eyes for a few silent seconds. He looked back up at Greg and murmured a quiet ‘thank you’. Greg started to pull his hand back, but Mycroft reached out and touched his forearm.

Greg’s eyes met his. Mycroft’s hand felt solid against his arm, no sign of letting go. They looked at each other for a long time, Mycroft’s hand wrapped around his arm, hot even through his jacket. Greg put his hand back on Mycroft’s shoulder. He felt like he was stood as close as he could be without invading his space too much.

Greg felt his heart pumping in his chest, the silence the only thing he could hear pushing in around him. Greg licked his lips. He didn’t realise he was doing it until he’d done it, and Mycroft Holmes still was watching him.

He watched Mycroft’s eyes drift down to his lips and back into his eyes.

Greg thought he could see some sort of desperation and willing there. Like he hadn’t been touched in a very long time, and like Greg’s hand on his shoulder was somehow anchoring him there. Grounding him. Greg stopped thinking as he stepped closer and wrapped his arms around Mycroft’s neck, pressing their chests together.

Mycroft didn’t react straight away, but he didn’t feel tense either.

Greg let out a sigh he didn’t know he was holding the second he felt Mycroft’s arms draw around his waist. “I’m so angry with him,” Mycroft whispered, his head pressing against Greg’s shoulder.

“So am I,” Greg said. He rubbed his hand against the top of Mycroft’s back. “Angry and relieved.” He felt Mycroft’s head move against his shoulder in agreement.

They stayed there for a while. Mycroft’s body felt firm against his, warm. Greg thought about how he probably smelt a bit, and was a bit ashamed of that fact. Mycroft, by contrast, smelt like new clothes. He smelt of cologne and faintly of cigarettes.

It had been agony, Greg thought, waiting to hear if the treatment was working. They’d sat in his room for hours. And now it was just past 4am, and they were both exhausted. But Greg wanted to stay tough, because he thought Mycroft could slump in his arms any second.

Mycroft pulled back first, letting one hand drop to his side, while the other remained at Greg’s waist.

Greg dropped his hands to Mycroft’s arms. He looked at the man in front of him, the dark rings under his eyes, the lines on his forehead.

And God, he needed sleep, because he couldn’t tear his eyes away from him. The usual intense, powerful gaze was gone and he looked fragile. Hurting. Strangely, well, brokenly beautiful.

Greg rubbed his hands up Mycroft’s arms and Mycroft tilted his head just a fraction. Greg watched him lick his lips. Greg let out a soft sigh, stepping forward, noticing Mycroft’s mouth was inches from his, at the right angle for Greg to just close the gap and draw their mouths together…

Then Mycroft’s phone began ringing.

Greg pulled away sharply, turning his back to Mycroft and walking swiftly over to the confectionery machine. He heard Mycroft murmuring inaudibly into his phone, and Greg took that opportunity to walk out of the room.

He leaned against the wall, frowning. He unconsciously touched where his wedding band used to be. He was going to kiss Mycroft Holmes. And he hadn’t kissed anyone but Caroline in the 17 years he’d known her.

But he was about to kiss Mycroft Holmes, and he thought Mycroft Holmes was going to kiss him back.

It was tiredness. It had to be the lack of sleep addling his brain. They were exhausted, emotional and relieved. Everyone looked for physical contact after something like this, didn’t they?

Taking a quick look into Sherlock’s room - the man was lying on the bed his hands in a steeple under his chin - Greg left the hospital and headed home, resolving to not give it another thought.


	10. Still Lost

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To celebrate writing 4,000 words today, I present you with the next chapter. The comments on the last one made me so unbelievably happy, you would not believe. To: Iridescentkiss, Goldynwings, Anom, Velma and KingTaran you are all fabulous, as are the very lovely people who have provided kudos and subscriptions. I hope I can continue to keep you all happy (and guessing!) PS: I'm sorry for the reference to Luton University. It's not actually that bad. And it's changed now anyway.

_December, 2005_

_Greg was sat at his desk, working. He had the pictures of the bodies laid out in front of him, although he could not make out their specific features._ _Mycroft Holmes walked into the room like he owned it._ _Greg stood, the desk disappeared and Greg walked straight over to him and kissed him._

_It was a hot, precise, desperate kiss that left them with their arms around each other, fingers tangled in clothing..._

_...From the corner of his eye, Greg sensed a movement. There was Sherlock, dressed in a red t-shirt, stained in blood. Greg blinked._ _Sherlock was gone. Replacing him was the eight-year-old boy in the red t-shirt and the blood-soaked and bruised face._

_“You couldn’t help me,” he said_

 and Greg woke up with a start.

He scrambled up to a seating position, pushing the covers off his sweat-covered body. He rubbed his face, closing his eyes. The boy’s face was still all he could see. He hadn’t seen him for a while now. He often popped up in dreams - no, nightmares - when Greg was under the most stress.

Greg reached for his phone on the other pillow. 3.45am it read.

He was exhausted. Having left the hospital at 4.37am the day before, he’d spent the whole day feeling like a zombie, mixed with continued stress about what Sherlock had done while also feeling a bit bewildered he’d been so close to kissing Mycroft Holmes. And apparently his subconscious was rather fond of the idea of kissing Mycroft, since that part of the dream had been quite pleasant. Greg checked his emails, and decided to drop the man a text.

 

MESSAGES  
3.47am: Hi just seeing how  
Sherlock’s getting on. Hope he’s  
not causing too much stress.

 

He pressed send, took a sip from the glass of water beside the bed, pulling a face at how warm it was. He slid back underneath the covers and closed his eyes. His phone beeped.

 

MESSAGES      Mycroft Holmes  
3.49am: He is recovering. He  
would like to see you if you can  
find the time. As would I. M

 

Greg frowned, not expecting a reply so quickly. The bright light of his phone made him squint as he replied.

 

MESSAGES  
3.53am: I’m on late shift so will  
get there in the morn. What you  
doing up?

 

MESSAGES      Mycroft Holmes  
3.54am: I am travelling. I will be  
out of the country until Friday.  
Perhaps we can arrange a time to  
have a drink? I need to ask a  
favour of you. M

 

A favour. Brilliant. More favours.

 

MESSAGES  
3.56am: What time Fri? Last message  
from me. I’m going back to sleep.  
Good trip.

 

MESSAGES      Mycroft Holmes  
4.12am: Is 8pm suitable? Have a  
pleasant rest. M 

 

Greg didn’t wake up when his phone beeped this time. But in the morning he replied.

 

MESSAGES  
06.54am: 8 is fine. See you soon.  
On my way to see Sherlock. 

 

* * *

 

 Greg found Sherlock sitting up in the hospital bed drinking a cup of tea. He certainly seemed better than the day before. “Have you got a case?” he asked, as Greg walked in.

Greg folded his arms, eyeing the drip attracted to Sherlock’s arm. “No. You and me are going to have words.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I’m so sorry and I’ll never do it again.”

“Say it like you mean it.”

Sherlock just stared. “They’re releasing me later,” he said.

Greg frowned. “Not until you tell me what the hell you were thinking.” He sat down next to the bed. “I’ve got all day.”

“No you haven’t, you’ve got work.”

Greg folded his arms across his chest. “Why did you do it?”

Sherlock put his tea down on the table. “The rat run case was annoying me. I didn’t understand why the killer chose poison rather than shooting or stabbing them, which would have been far more efficient. I weighed up the risks and decided that trying it for myself would provide an insight into the mind of the killer.”

Greg shook his head. What the actual fuck? “That wasn’t worth dying over,” he said.

“I disagree.” Sherlock's face was impossible to read. Somewhere in his mind, he had thought poisoning himself was logical. Greg thought he was maniac. 

“Do you have any idea what the hell you put me and your brother through?”

“Mycroft’s so melodramatic," Sherlock said.

Greg rubbed his face. “We sat here for 10 bloody hours thinking you were going to die.”

“Will the two of you stop acting like my parents?” Sherlock frowned. “Come to think of it, where are my parents?”

“Mycroft didn’t tell them.”

“Why?”

“Because he didn’t want to worry them if you were going to recover.”

Sherlock huffed. “He just likes feeling important," he muttered. 

“He cares about you.” Sherlock sipped his tea. He wasn’t going to respond to that, it seemed. “So. Did you learn anything? Was it worth it?”

“Not particularly, no. I won’t be doing it again.”

“Too bloody right you won’t. You’re moving out of your room.”

“What? No I’m not.”

“Yes you are," Greg said. "And that's final." 

“I’m not. I’m going undercover.”

Greg couldn’t help himself. He burst out with laughter. “You’re doing what?”

“I’m going undercover. As a dealer. Or maybe an addict, I haven’t decided yet.”

“No, you bloody well aren’t. You’re not getting anywhere near this case right now. I don’t even know if you’re going anywhere near any of my cases right now.”

Sherlock frowned. “But we’re working on the rat run case together.”

“No we’re not. And stop calling it that.”

“Well, what else are we supposed to call it?”

“It doesn’t need a name.”

“Of course it needs a name. That’s what people do, they name things. You know Mycroft once had a rabbit called Stanley?”

Greg grinned. He couldn't help it. The frustration he had with Sherlock melted away at the thought of Mycroft with a pet. “He had what?”

“He only had it a month because mother was allergic. Mycroft was devastated.”

Greg decided to file that piece of information away for future reference. Maybe that was why he’d been so concerned about the bunny suicide mug? Greg felt a bit bad about that now. “Anyway,” Sherlock said, looking at the wall. “You won’t solve the case without me and I won’t be clean without you. I think Mycroft would approve of an arrangement between us, don’t you?”

“I think Mycroft wants to lock you in a room and throw away the key," Greg muttered. 

“But you don’t. You _need_ me, Detective Inspector.”

“Like a hole in the head,” Greg said. “I’ll make you a deal. Two weeks. Get clean, get a new flat and then we’ll get back into the rat poison case.”

“With me undercover?”

“No! No that is not happening in a million years.”

“Why? I’d be brilliant.”

Greg was sure he would be. That was a frightening thought. “I don’t care if you’re an Oscar winning actor, you’re not doing it and that’s final. Two weeks, Sherlock.”

“I don’t have any money for a flat,” he said.

“Yes you do, Mycroft’s put loads of money in your account.”

“I’m not touching his money.”

“Yes you are, Sherlock," Greg said, standing up, his hands in his pockets. "You don’t get it. You don’t understand what you put me through. Well, this is it. You get your act together or I’m done with you and I’m done with your brother. Find a flat. I’ll bring a list to you and you can go and view them.” Sherlock folded his arms over his chest. “You’re in no position to protest,” Greg told him. “Deal with it. Right. I’m off to work. See you tomorrow, yeah?”

Sherlock turned his back to Greg and he rolled his eyes and left.  

 

* * *

 

Rolling his shoulders, Greg checked the time. It was 7.34pm on Friday, and so he could expect a visit from Mycroft pretty soon. He needed a drink. He wasn't hungry - he was past that point - but a pint. Now, a pint he could get behind. He turned back to his paperwork, casting an eye over Bullock's scrawl. A few shoplifting offences, a few caught. Just needed to get this processed for Mag’s Court.

Pulling up CCTV references on his computer, Greg managed to get through three of the five he needed to sign before his phone beeped.

 

MESSAGES        Mycroft Holmes  
7.56pm: The car is outside. M

 

Greg stood up and put his coat on, double-checking his emails and turning the screen off. He cast a look around his office for any last minute jobs which needed attending to and walked out of the building. He found the familiar car waiting by the entrance and opened the back door.

"Good evening," Mycroft said looking at him. "Long day." Greg nodded but avoided Mycroft’s eyes. Of course the man could take one look at him and deduce that.

"Just full of paperwork." He put his seatbelt on. "So what's the plan then?"

"You look as though you need a strong drink," Mycroft said, smiling. 

Greg laughed, the tension in the pit of his stomach melting away. "You got that right."

"There is a quiet establishment near here I have visited on occasion. I'm sure they will have a suitable drink to improve your mood."

Greg watched out of the window. Half-expecting a bar at some fancy hotel, he was surprised when they pulled outside of a pub he'd visited a couple of times. He knew it was warm, full of good ale and cosy leather chairs you could sink into. And they had a good pub quiz night. But he suspected if that had been on this evening then Mycroft would have found them somewhere else to go.

They got out of the car and walked in. Greg surveyed the pumps, selecting an Old Peculiar and watching with interest as Mycroft selected his own drink. He chose a whiskey.

Greg raised his eyebrows. "Long day?" he asked, failing to find the same confident tone Mycroft had when he'd said the same thing earlier.

"Yes. Most unfortunate," Mycroft said. He let Greg pay for the drinks and led the way towards a sofa facing a fire.

Greg took a seat, casting an eye over the other people in the pub. “So you had a favour to ask me?” he asked.

“I was going to ask for you to allow Sherlock access to the Kirkcudbright files. It is of some importance to me. And I believe his involvement will help. And it would take his mind off the rat poison case, which I believe can only be a benefit at the present time.”

“No.”

Mycroft frowned. “No?”

“Sherlock’s off my cases until he finds somewhere else to live and proves he’s clean in two weeks time.”

“But then you will allow him access?”

“I don’t know. It’s a massive case. I’ve spent two years on it. And I’m not going to have it messed up in court.”

“Again.”

Greg clenched his teeth as he looked at the man. “Are you deliberately trying to piss me off?”

“My apologies. Hadrian Kirkcudbright had access to information that was of vital importance to this country. I would hate for it to have got into the wrong hands.”

“I’m not putting Sherlock on it. Maybe one day but not now.”

“Because you’re still angry at him.”

“I’m furious,” Greg confirmed. “The fact he doesn’t get why just makes me more angry.” Mycroft took another sip of his drink. Greg turned to watch the fire. He took a long drink. “Well, if that’s it, I should probably go.”

“Very well,” Mycroft said. Greg looked at him. His brother almost killed himself. Greg didn’t like how it had taken him that long to fully appreciate that.

“How you doing?” Greg asked gently.

“Fine,” Mycroft said.

“You don’t need to be all macho with me.”

“I’m not being... macho.” Mycroft pulled a face like the word physically hurt him to say. Greg looked at Mycroft, turning in the sofa to angle his body towards the man.

"I told him we're finding him a new flat," Greg said.

"Yes, I'm sure that will be for the best. If you require my input, let me know."

Greg shook his head, taking a long drink. "I'm bloody sick of this," Greg said. Mycroft narrowed his eyes at him. "Have you even spoken to Sherlock since this happened?"

"Of course. I told you Sherlock requested your presence."

"So I can stop being a go-between?"

"I never asked you to be a mediator," Mycroft said slowly. 

"Feels a bit like that's what I've become."

"Only because you're the closest thing to a friend Sherlock has ever found. And believe me, that does surprise me."

Greg frowned. "Why? What's wrong with me?"

"There is nothing wrong with you, Greg. The surprise comes in the fact you have taken Sherlock as a friend yourself. The man told you of your wife's affair, presumably without any consideration for your feelings. And yet, a day later, you met with him as though you weren't hurt by that."

"He's useful," Greg mumbled into his pint glass.

"You like him."

"Well. Shouldn't I?"

"Of course you should. Sherlock has a tricky time finding friends. He has a tricky find even finding acquaintances happy to be in the same room as him. That you have been willing to work with him despite all his obvious flaws is a great source of surprise for me. But, as I have told you before, you continually surprise me."

Greg tilted his head, looking at his glass. "I guess you're a tough man to surprise."

"The toughest." 

Greg found Mycroft to be smiling warmly at him, taking a slow sip of his drink. Greg looked away from his mouth. "So. You went to Oxford. And Sherlock went to Cambridge. Was that deliberate?"

Mycroft laughed. "Almost certainly. He would not want to attend a university he felt beneath him. But he would rather have gone to Luton University than attend Oxford."

"Does he always do that?"

"Do what?"

"Cut off his nose to spite his face."

"Not often. But he has been known to."

Greg nodded, savouring his ale. "I don't get why he did it, Mycroft. If he was back on the heroin, I'd be angry but I'd get it. Relapses happen. But that. The poison. I don't get it."

"He thinks about the case constantly," Mycroft said after a few moments. Greg looked at him. "Imagine walking into this pub and hearing the thoughts of every person in it. That man over there with his girlfriend. He is trying very hard not to make her aware he has lost his job and can no longer support her and their child. She on the other hand is blissfully content and has no idea of his inner torment. The barman has just lost a parent. The gentleman in the red shirt has just been promoted. Now, imagine you could hear those thoughts. Every concern, every emotion, all of the things that went on during their day going through your mind simultaneously. That is what Sherlock hears all day every day. I am quite sure it's deafening at times. And the heroin turns the volume down."

Greg looked around the room. "That doesn't explain the poison."

"In the back of his mind, every waking moment, he is considering the case. Weighing it up, trying to establish what he missed. You must realise that for my brother, not solving this case would be the worst kind of failure?"

Greg crossed his arms. "I know what that's like," he said.

"I know," Mycroft said. "So believe me when I tell you he rather erroneously thought that taking the poison might give him an insight into the case. It was a last resort. He just wanted to figure it out."

"How do you get what he's going through? The voices in your head, I mean."

"I learnt to shut it out just before I attended Oxford. I tried to do the same for Sherlock. I tried to teach him how to turn the volume down. But of course, he wouldn't listen to me."

"Sounds like Sherlock," Greg muttered.

"Indeed."

"So when did he got hooked on drugs?"

"At university. I was in the middle of a particularly promising career move at the time. Out of the country. I didn't realise what he was doing to himself until long after I returned." Greg finished his drink. "I would do anything to have Sherlock give me the opportunity to help him," Mycroft added.

"How did you… turn the volume down?" Greg asked.

"I discovered how to delegate."

Greg laughed. "Delegate your thoughts?"

"Yes. I learnt how to filter out the unimportant, mundane details while still retaining them for future use. And I concentrate instead on the things I need to recall instantly."

Greg shook his head. "Jesus. You must think I'm an idiot."

"You have many strengths, Greg."

Greg laughed. "That's a yes then."

The corner of Mycroft's mouth rose a fraction. "Few people think like Sherlock and myself."

"So. Who wins?" Greg asked.

"I'm the smart one," Mycroft said with a smile. He finished his whisky. "Allow me to buy you another." 

Mycroft walked to the bar. Greg watched him go, musing that this was the first time he'd really learnt anything about him. He wouldn't - or couldn't - talk about his work. And he seemed to be as much of a workaholic as Greg was.

Greg looked over his shoulder at the man at the bar, casting his eyes down his back, down his long legs. He shifted on the seat. It had been a long time since he'd properly considered a man in any detail. He was a bit attracted, he admitted. A bit. Perhaps it was the way he was always in control…

He didn't realise he was staring until Mycroft turned around with a glass in each hand. He parted his lips a fraction, his head tilting slightly when he saw Greg was watching him. He began to smile and walked over. Greg felt his cheeks warm, and hoped it wasn't too noticeable. Mycroft set the glasses down and sat back down on the sofa, closer to Greg than he was before. "So, you can analyse everything about someone?" Greg asked.

"Deduce. Yes."

Greg picked up his pint. "That must be pretty useful in your line of work. Whatever that is."

Mycroft chuckled. "I find a number of skills to be of use."

Greg grinned. "It was worth a try. I'm curious."

He looked up as the barman brought over a tray of food. He set some bruschetta, olive oil and balsamic vinegar down in front of Mycroft. Greg received a beef burger and chips. "Thank you," Mycroft murmured to the barman, ripping his bread.

Greg laughed. "You deduce I hadn't eaten dinner or something?"

"A bacon sandwich all day is hardly substantial, Greg," Mycroft said.

"I had toast too this morning," Greg muttered.

"What is the particularly unpleasant incident which is bothering you?" Mycroft asked as Greg took a bite of his burger. Greg shrugged. He'd been trying not to think about it.

"We arrested the bloke," he said.

"Domestic violence?"

"Yeah."

"I'm sorry."

"I deal with it all the time."

"And yet this one has particularly affected you." 

Greg looked at him. "It's sorted. It's just a lot of paperwork before it goes to court." To his surprise, Mycroft reached over and touched his arm. Just for a fraction of a second.

"You have many strengths, Greg," he repeated before turning back to his food. Greg glanced at his arm before taking a big mouthful of his burger. "What sort of flat are you looking for?" Mycroft asked as he wiped his fingers on the serviette.

"Bed, kitchen, bathroom. I don't need more than that."

"Any particular area?"

"Just anywhere I can afford. As close to work as possible, I guess."

"If you need anything-"

"-I don't." Greg snapped. He wasn't sure when he started getting defensive. Must be tired. "Sorry, Mycroft."

"Do you need to talk?" The question was gentle, and it took Greg by surprise. He shook his head.

"But thanks." Greg bit his lip. He didn't want to ask about their near kiss at the hospital but... "Mycroft-" He was interrupted by his phone vibrating in his pocket. He groaned. "Sorry. Lestrade."

"Greg, there's been more bodies." It was Sally. "Rat run bodies."

"Shit. Where?"

"West Cromwell Road."

"West," Greg repeated. Upper, Lower, South, West, North... "Almost definitely rat run. I'll be there soon as I can."

"I'll drive you," Mycroft said beside him. 

Greg mouthed a thank you. "Right. See you in a bit, Sally. Secure the scene, call forensics... brilliant, well done. See you."

Greg sent a text. 

 

MESSAGES  
9.13pm: West Cromwell Road.  
New rat run body. Come if you want.

 

He followed Mycroft out of the pub and he held the car door open for him. Greg slid along the back seat, checking his phone. "The rat poison case?" Mycroft asked as he got in beside him. Greg nodded. He'd just received a reply from Sherlock.

 

MESSAGES        Sherlock Holmes  
9.16pm: I'll be there. SH

 

Mycroft sat on his own phone while Greg stared out of the window. The car came to a halt 10 minutes later. Greg took his seat belt off. He jumped slightly as Mycroft touched his arm. His fingers curled around it. "I had a nice evening," he said. "I'll be in touch."

Greg smiled. "Me too." Mycroft removed his hand and Greg got out of the car, trying to ignore the butterflies in his stomach. Crime scene. Time to be the Detective Inspector. "Donovan!" Greg walked towards the flashing lights, hearing Mycroft's car drive off. He glanced over his shoulder as it went before turning back. “What do we have?"

She shook her head. "You just have to see it." 

Greg noted her shaking hands. "Aw crap and I just ate," he muttered, stepping under the plastic rope.

The dead man's hands were stretched up above his head, secured to a sign above him. His feet were surrounded by vomit. Greg swallowed and stepped closer. "Poor bugger," he muttered.

From behind him he heard Sally. "What the hell are you doing here?" Sherlock had arrived then. Greg walked over.

"Come on, Holmes. Get your arse over here. Donovan, leave it." Sherlock graced Sally with a smug smile before walking over to Greg. He looked up at the body.

"Similar to the bodies in the house," he said.

"Yeah."

"Interesting." Sherlock inspected the man. "Drug-user. Cocaine."

"Not heroin?"

"Need to see his arms. Had curry for his last meal." Greg glanced at the ground. Yeah. That was probably a fair assumption. Nice. "He died quicker than the rest," Sherlock said. "This isn't a quiet road and someone would have contacted the police quicker if they'd seen him. Maybe tried to help him."

"He was strung up first?"

"Struggle marks evident on his wrists."

Greg sighed. "I was afraid of that."

Sherlock turned to him. "Why were you out with my brother?"

"Is that really important right now?" Greg asked, frowning. Sherlock seemed to be weighing his options up and turned back to the body.

Greg couldn't help but note the fact that he'd started giving up asking Sherlock for an explanation for everything he deduced. Apparently Sherlock had proved his ability already. And Mycroft had said he was the smart one... Worrying.

Greg asked for some gloves, and walked up to the body. He felt in his pockets and took out the man's wallet. It was full of bank notes, but no official form of ID. "He's from Newcastle," Sherlock said. "The library card."

"Should be able to get him identified then," Greg said.

Sherlock frowned. "I'm losing sight of the pattern." 

Greg pressed his lips together. He had to admit, this did follow the bodies in the house more than any of the others they had come across. He knew serial killers. How often did their modus operandi really change? And change this often. "Get the body to Bart's when you're done with the scene photographs," Greg said. "Not a lot we can do tonight. Sherlock. Coming into the office tomorrow?"

"Can't," Sherlock said. Greg stared at him.

"You can't?"

"No. Busy."

Greg took his shoulder and led him to the side. "Sherlock, do I need to warn you about drugs again?"

"No. You've made your feelings on that matter perfectly clear."

Greg eyed him. "Alright. I'll text you if we get anything interesting from this body, okay?" Sherlock didn't say anything, but turned and sauntered away from the scene. Greg watched him go, biting his top lip.


	11. Got A Suitcase, Got Regrets

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off: Apologies - this took me longer than I would have liked. I've spent the whole week suffering with a poorly wisdom tooth and it's made writing quite difficult.  
> To MoonRiver, KingTaran, Velma, Iridescentkiss and beccab, thank you for all your kind words. Sometimes when the story is wrestling with me, re-reading them is enough to pull me through!  
> To all those who have hit the subscribe button - I can't express how grateful I am that you find this worth reading! And onto the fic...

_December, 2005_

Christmas was never a quiet time. Too many drunken louts causing problems in pubs and beating each other up. This Christmas was no exception.

It was Christmas Eve and Greg was sat at his desk, aware of the fact the cells were almost at capacity and it was only 12.06am. An email popped up on the right hand side of his screen. Greg sipped his coffee as he clicked on it to open it.

 

 _ Holmes, Mycroft  
_ _Subject: Merry Christmas  
_ _Dear Greg,  
_ _I realise you do not look upon this time of year favourably, but I am just about to leave the office and thought of you at work.  
_ _I hope this email finds you well and you find some festive cheer.  
_ _Merry Christmas.  
_ _Kindest regards,  
_ _Mycroft Holmes._

 

Greg clicked reply and paused as his fingers hovered about the keyboard. They hadn’t spoken since the pub and indeed, Greg had tried to give it as little thought as possible. He attempted to ignore those two times Mycroft had touched his arm because he knew he was over-analysing it. So he was cutting Mycroft out of his head as much as possible.

Except that one time in the shower. But he’d tried to convince himself it wasn’t him he’d been thinking of, with his legs and impossibly delicious accent… He typed out a reply.

 

_Hi Mycroft,  
_ _I’m good thanks, hope you are too. Have a nice Xmas and don’t let Sherlock get into any trouble (ha, good luck with that!!!)  
_ _See you in the New Year.  
_ _Cheers,  
_ _Greg._

 

Greg picked up his files on the Kirkcudbright case and began to look through them. He waited for his phone to go off and tell him to get on the streets and break up more trouble.

Christmas was the worst. Down the full length of the road were trees with Christmas lights. Sparkling, pretty, magic. It should be the best time of the year, but it always made him feel fucking miserable.

Greg had been born in November - probably. And like so many children, he should have spent that first Christmas of his life with presents and love. He spent his first Christmas - and the next 11 - in the children’s home and they tried, oh they tried very hard, but it was never actually what he imagined other kids enjoyed. And this year was shaping up to be one of the worst in his adult life.

Alone, almost divorced. And the closest thing he had to proper friends or family were a thoughtless, idiotic genius who didn’t realise or care the trouble he almost put Greg in on a regular basis. And a man he almost kissed who strolled around like he was the master of the universe.

Merry Fucking Christmas.

 

* * *

 

The confidence he had that his week would improve was definitely misplaced. Christmas Day, which often started quiet but gradually built to a crescendo of crime, was the worst Greg had known.

Stood freezing along the Thames as 12.32pm as RNLI crews dragged the body out of the water he prayed it was going to be judged quickly to be a suicide and given to some other poor bastard to deal with.

The stab wound in his abdomen indicated it probably was in Greg’s jurisdiction.

He rubbed his hands over his face. “I bloody hate Christmas,” he muttered.

 

* * *

 

_January, 2006_

Greg got into the flat just after midnight on New Year’s Day and was all ready to climb into bed. He’d had an exhausting week and was grateful this would be the start of some days off. Caroline was sat on the sofa and he stared at her. “Hi.”

She looked at him, bright lipstick on her mouth. She looked neatly put together. Greg didn’t feel his heart beat, nor feel any real attraction at all. “Hi,” she said.

“Look what-”

“-I brought the paperwork,” she cut him off.

Greg frowned. “You brought the paperwork?”

“Yes. For our divorce.”

Greg swallowed, moving to sit down on the chair near her. “You look good,” he said, looking at her.

“I am,” she replied. “Martin’s very good to me.” She looked down at her knees before her eyes met Greg’s again. “I’m pregnant.”

Greg stared at her. “Already?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“And there’s no way it’s-”

“-It’s not yours, Greg, don’t worry.”

Greg folded his arms across his chest. He was glad of that. He pressed his lips together. “So, what, you getting married now?”

“It’s early days,” Caroline said, looking at him. “It shouldn’t have gone like this, Greg.”

“What, getting caught you mean?” She looked down at her knees. Greg bit his top lip. “You keep this place. I don’t want it,” he finally said.

“Greg-”

“Nah. Seriously. I’m sick of being reminded of you. I’ll move out next week.”

“I just want you to be happy,” she said.

“Just give me the papers,” Greg replied, desperate to get it all over and done with. Caroline slid them along the table towards him. “I need to read these first.”

“Of course,” she said, looking around. “You didn’t decorate for Christmas.”

Greg frowned at her. “Why would I?”

“It’s Christmas. We always decorated.”

“You always decorated,” he corrected.

“Don’t you like it?” she asked. Greg sat back in the chair, baffled. He didn’t realise just how little they knew each other until that moment.

“I hate Christmas.”

“What?” Caroline’s eyebrows went up. “No you don’t.”

“Caz. I hate Christmas. It’s the worst time of year.”

“Since when?”

“Since I was a kid. I’ve always worked on Christmas.”

“Yeah, because we didn’t have children. If we had children you would have been allowed…” she stopped talking. “Wait, you worked Christmas on purpose didn’t you?” Greg nodded. She hurt him, might as well hurt her back a bit. “Why?” she asked.

“What bit of ‘I hate Christmas’ didn’t make sense to you?”

Caroline shook her head. She stood up and started putting her coat on. “I want the keys two weeks today.”

“No problem.”

Caroline watched him for a moment. “Be happy, okay?”

Greg nodded, but didn’t reply as he watched her leave. 

 

* * *

 

Greg and Sherlock found themselves in Greg’s office looking at flats. Sherlock was doing it under duress, because Greg said he wasn’t allowed access to any cases or crime scenes until he found a new place to live. Greg hadn’t been expecting to look for a new flat at the same time but he’d packed his stuff up. What he had of it. He didn’t have much in the way of possessions.

That was why, two weeks later, the two of them were moving a desk into Sherlock’s new flat. Or, rather, Greg was.

“Oi! Sherlock! If you don’t get your arse down here and help me with this I’m going to drop it back down the stairs.”

Sherlock’s face appeared at the top of the stairs. “Come on, Lestrade. You can get it up here.”

“No I can’t. Now get down here and help me.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and walked back down, taking hold of the other side of the desk. Together they dragged it up the stairs. “Where’d you want it?” Greg asked.

Sherlock shrugged. “Anywhere.”

Greg put his half down on the floor. “Right. It’s staying here then.”

“What? No.”

“Then bloody tell me where you want it!”

Sherlock looked around the room. “By the window.” They moved it together and put it down where Sherlock wanted it. The flat wasn’t big. But it contained a separate bedroom just large enough for a single bed and a wardrobe, a bathroom to himself and a kitchen-living area. Greg looked around.

“Is there anything else you need?” Greg asked, frowning as Sherlock stared past him.

“My, my. This is quite a set-up.” Greg turned around and looked at Mycroft. He felt his shoulders tense a fraction and forced himself to relax his posture, hoping neither of the Holmeses had noticed his reaction.

Thankfully Sherlock’s attention was too fixed on Mycroft to pay any attention to Greg. He sat down on the sofa, realising he’d never seen the two brothers in the same room before. Except for when Sherlock was unconscious, so that didn’t really count. This would be interesting. Greg stretched one arm out along the back of the sofa, the other on the arm rest. He crossed his ankle over the other knee, awaiting the entertainment.

“What are you doing here?” Sherlock asked, glaring.

“I wanted to see your new place. It is infinitely better than the last one. Not that that’s saying much.” Mycroft eyed the room scornfully.

“I didn’t have a choice but to leave.” Sherlock turned and looked pointedly at Greg. Greg grinned and shrugged in response.

“Have you found yourself somewhere suitable?” Mycroft asked, ignoring Sherlock and turning his attention to Greg.

The intensity of his eyes reminded Greg of having nearly kissing him all over again. Don’t think of that right now, he thought. “Yeah, it’s alright,” Greg said, swallowing. “It’ll do.”

“And how is the Kirkcudbright case?”

Sherlock looked at Greg curiously. “What’s the Kirkcudbright case?”

“Oh no!” Greg pointed at Mycroft. “No. Don’t do that.”

“I was merely enquiring,” Mycroft said.

“No you’re not,” Greg said. “You’re trying to get Sherlock interested.”

“You made your feelings on Sherlock’s involvement in the case quite clear, Detective Inspector.”

“What’s the Kirkcudbright case?” Sherlock asked again.

“Stop it, Mycroft,” Greg warned.

Mycroft smiled nonchalantly. “Well, since you’re both getting along so well, I suppose I should leave you to your lifting and carrying.”

“Not gonna stay and help build the wardrobe then?” Greg asked.

Sherlock snorted. “Mycroft get his fingers dirty?”

Mycroft glared at his brother. “Good afternoon, Detective Inspector. Sherlock.” Mycroft turned and walked back through the door and down the stairs.

Sherlock made an agitated sound and went to watch him leave through the window. Greg was relieved he wasn’t watching him, because he was sure he’d just checked out Mycroft’s arse.

“What’s the Kirkcudbright case?” Sherlock asked.

“None of your business,” Greg said.

“I don’t approve of you and Mycroft knowing something I don’t.”

“Tough. Are you helping me with this wardrobe then?” Greg asked.

Sherlock sat down at his desk without a word and opened his brand new laptop, bought with Mycroft’s credit card he’d acquired (stolen, probably) over Christmas. Greg rolled his eyes and grabbed the screwdriver. He walked into Sherlock’s bedroom and left him taping on his keyboard.

Two days later and Greg was moving his own stuff in. Alone. Sherlock had not-so-politely declined the invitation to return the favour. Thankfully the flat had come with a bed, and so he had only needed to drag in a few boxes and bags of clothes. While Sherlock lived two flights of stairs up, Greg had found a ground-floor flat.

He eyed the mould on the wall. Well, it wasn’t ideal, but it would do for a while.

“This is where you are living?”

Greg took a long breath before turning around to see Mycroft at the door. He was at least carrying one the boxes from the hallway.

“Yeah. What’s wrong with it?” Greg took the box from him. The fingers of his right hand brushed against Mycroft’s, and he felt the brief touch long after it had occured.

“Greg, what’s right with it?” Mycroft asked him.

Greg carried the box into the bedroom. “Look, I don’t have much choice at the moment.” He checked the contents (DVDs) and closed the box back up. “I’m still paying half the mortgage on the old flat.”

“I suggest putting an end to that particular outgoing very quickly.” Greg rolled his eyes at being bossed around again, but said nothing. “You’re not living here, it’s worse than Sherlock’s.”

Greg walked out of the bedroom and folded his arms. “It’s all I can afford.”

“Let me help you.”

“I am not taking money from you.”

“You won’t be. Let me just ask some contacts if they can find you more suitable accommodation.”

“It’s suitable,” Greg protested.

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. Greg held his hands up. “Fine. Do what you want.”

“That is the correct answer,” Mycroft said. A small smile played on his lips. Greg stared at them, feeling the tension between them reignite.

He started to walk towards him, and Mycroft kept his arms down by his sides.

“Guess there’s no point unpacking then,” Greg said.

Mycroft smiled. “Quite.” Greg reached him and Mycroft lifted his head challengingly. Greg just thought how he could push Mycroft back into the wall. Judging by the way Mycroft was looking at him right now, he probably wouldn’t say no… Mycroft’s lips were parted just slightly, his eyes holding Greg’s intently.

Mycroft’s phone started ringing. Greg watched him as he looked down at the screen. “I must take this,” Mycroft said quietly. “I’ll be away for a while. Look after Sherlock.” Greg gave him a slight nod and watched him answer his phone and walk out of the flat.

Greg let out a small breath. He was in trouble and he knew it.


	12. Please

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm nervous about this chapter, not going to lie.  
> To gin: I'm sorry I haven't been able to update this so much, but the writing bunnies have returned and I hope they will work very hard. Don't give up on me!  
> To KingTaran, MoonRiver, vanya and Velma: Thank you all so much as ever.

_January, 2006_

“I have good news for you,” Sally said with a grin when she walked into Greg’s office.

He looked up from his computer. “That’s a first. What is it?”

Sally folded her arms, watching him. “We have a man in custody,” she said, smiling.

Greg snorted. “More paperwork? That’s your good news?”

“He’s a drug dealer.”

“Even better,” Greg muttered, turning back to his computer.

“He might have links to the rat run case.”

Greg rolled his eyes, groaning. “When the hell did everyone start calling it that?” he muttered.

“About the same time you did, sir.”

Greg frowned, sipping his coffee. It had gone cold, but he refused to let her know that. “Well. Stop it.”

“It’s pretty catchy, sir.”

“Sherlock came up with it,” he said.

Sally sneered. “Anyway, do you want to speak to him?”

Greg looked at the time and back at his computer. He’d been sitting there for three hours. It would be good to stretch his legs and talk to some actual people. Criminals always intrigued him. “Yeah, why not.” Greg picked his jacket off the back of his chair and put it on. He followed Sally to the interview room, listening as she gave him a run-down of the charges and who the man was.

Greg opened the door. “So,” he said as he walked in. “Let’s talk about murder.”

The largish man with greasy hair looked at him, and his eyes widened. “Why?” he asked.

Greg and Sally each took a seat. “Because it’s a lot more interesting to me than…” Greg looked at the piece of paper. “Possession with intent to supply of Class A and Class B drugs.”

“I don’t know nothing about no murder,” the man said. He lifted a hand from the table, leaving a slight sweat mark behind. Nervous then. Good.

“No?” Greg asked. “A load of drug dealers getting knocked off around London and you don’t know anything about it?”

“No.”

Greg sat back in his seat, putting his hands behind his head. “Come on. You must have heard something. I’ll be sure to write down how cooperative you’re being.”

The man stared at him. Greg looked down at the files he’d brought with him and flicked through the paperwork. He took a head shot photograph of one of the victims out of the folder. “Recognise him?” he asked, setting it down. The dealer shook his head. Greg took out another photo. “This one?” More head shaking. “This one?”

“Fuck. Lamby,” the dealer said.

Greg frowned and looked at the picture. “Lamby?”

“Him. That’s Lamby. Lamby Jones. With a z.”

“Jones with a z?”

“Yeah. Like J-o-n-e-z,” the man said.

“Alright. Tell me about Lamby Jonez. Who was he?”

“He worked for Mac. He ain’t got a last name. Lamby used to go round the Hackney estates, mostly knocking off stolen metal shit. Like bikes and stuff. But Mac sometimes made him sell shiz on the streets.”

“What kind of stuff?”

“Smack, Mandy. Bit of weed.”

“Did he get into any trouble?” Greg asked.

“Nah. Lamby was cool. Lamby just did whatever Mac said.”

“Who is Mac?” Sally asked.

“He’s a suit.”

Greg frowned. “A suit?”

“Yeah, ya know. Like. Suited. He wears all this smart shiz. I only seen him once. But he pulls all the strings in this part of London. Well. He did.”

“What happened?” Greg asked, collecting the pictures back up.

“Word is some new guy came in on his turf. Started selling cheaper stuff in the same corners. I only telling you what I heard. Don’t go repeating it.”

“Who was the new guy?” Sally asked him.

“I dunno. Lamby says Mac was well angry. Like. He was declaring war or summat. I can’t believe they got Lamby. What did they do?”

“Rat poison,” Greg said.

“Rat poison? Like in the 80s?”

Greg exchanged a look with Sally. “In the 80s?” Greg repeated.

“Yeah. In the 80s there was this big war for turf. They used to mess each other’s drugs up. There was a massive problem in the south area.”

“South area? What do you count as the south area?”

“Like South London. Croydon, Wimbledon, Sutton. Maybe they doing that again. I dunno. But we all knows to keep our heads down. Don’t go anywhere you’re not s’posed to be. Don’t stand in anyone else’s turf. I just go where I always go. So. Now I told you all this shit. What do I get?”

“I’ll go speak to the chief, see if we can sort something out when this gets to court,” Greg said. “Is there anything else?”

“Nah. Sad for Lamby. He was alright.”

“How old do you think Mac is? Can you describe him?” Sally asked.

“I dunno. Only see him once. Maybe 40. 50. White, black hair. Suit.”

Greg got up. “Can you finish processing him?” he asked Sally. She nodded and started going through the paperwork.

Greg walked out and started walking back to his office. He couldn’t recall hearing of Mac before. “Oi, Bullock.” The man looked up from his desk. “Can you find out anything you can about rat poison deaths in the 80s in South London? I want anything you’ve got on it.”

Bullock nodded. “Sure, sir.”

Greg picked his phone out of his pocket and text Sherlock.

 

MESSAGES  
2.21pm: Got some new stuff for you  
mate. Come by tomorrow and we’ll  
go through it.  

 

Greg returned to his computer to find he had received an email. Greg frowned as he read it.

 

_Boyette, Anthea  
_ _Subject: Flat  
_ _49 Petty France, London, SW1H.  
_ _£800pcm.  
_ _1 bed, 1 bathroom, 1 reception, 1 kitchen, 1 porter, 1 lift.  
_ _5pm. Malcolm Dawn.  
_ _07529 513687._

  


Well, one thing was for sure, Mycroft’s assistant, PA, whoever she was, didn’t bother mincing her words. That thought made Greg smile. Mycroft Holmes who used as many words as he could manage, and an assistant who didn’t bother using them at all.

Greg typed Petty France into Google Maps. It was four minutes’ walk away from the Yard. How the heck was a place that central to London only £800 a month?

And who the hell was Malcolm Dawn? He typed out a reply.

 

_To: Boyette, Anthea_   
_Subject: Re: Flat  
_ _Hi,  
_ _Thanks but it’s ok. I’ll sort it.  
_ _Greg._

 

The mouse hovered over the send button. Maybe it was worth having a look. It couldn’t be any worse than his place. No harm in just looking. And Mycroft was obviously keen for him to be comfortable. Greg thought he shouldn’t read into that too much. The man probably felt responsible for lumbering him with Sherlock.

Greg deleted the message and closed his emails.

 

* * *

 

And so, for the first time in a long time, Greg left work before 5pm. His colleagues were shocked when they saw him walk out. “What’s up, boss?” Sally asked as she lit a cigarette by the bike rack.

“I’m checking out a new flat,” Greg told her as he walked past.

“Where?”

“Petty France.”

Sally frowned. “How’d you afford that?”

“A mate of mine has got a deal on it or something. It might be a shithole.”

Sally laughed. “Good luck.” Greg eyed her cigarette longingly but he started walking towards Petty France to make the appointment on time. He was sure he must have been down the road before, and he was more certain than ever he couldn’t afford to live there.

He felt a tap on his shoulder. “Detective Inspector Lestrade?”

Greg turned and looked at the grey haired man who wore a long dark coat. “Yeah, that’s me,” Greg confirmed. “Malcolm?” The man held out his hand and Greg shook it.

“Follow me,” the man said. He was Scottish, Greg noted. He followed Malcolm to a five-storey building. It was red-brick with frosted windows the height of doors along the bottom floor. Four further storeys were above it. Greg looked up, admiring. “It’s on the top,” Malcolm said, leading him to the entrance. He keyed in a code and Greg followed him in.

They took the lift up. Greg followed Malcolm in, determined, as ever, not to give away how he felt about this small box. He folded his arms and stared at the wall in front of him. Already he felt the pounding in his chest as they stood. “So, how come it’s so cheap?” Greg asked, glancing around the corners of the lift.

“The owner owes Mr Holmes a favour. A big one,” Malcolm said.

Greg frowned. Great. So Mycroft was doing him favours now too. “You know, I’m not really that fussed,” Greg protested. “There’s nothing wrong with my current place.”

The doors opened and Greg let out a soft breath. He assumed there were stairs in this building somewhere… Malcolm opened the door to the flat. “Mr Holmes said you’d say that. Just have a look. It comes furnished.”

Greg followed him into the living room. It was bright, that was for sure. Already furnished with two sofas more than he currently owned. They were a tan colour, either side of a coffee table in the centre of the room. Plenty of room on the wall to fix a television to. Greg nodded reluctantly. “Alright. It’s worth looking at,” he conceded.

He followed the man into the bedroom, a double bed in a spacious area with a wardrobe and bedside cabinet. And finally the kitchen, with all the things he needed. Fridge, freezer, microwave, washing machine. “So you’re not the landlord?” Greg asked.

“No. Mr Holmes asked me to show you around. Are you taking it?”

“No, I-”

“Mr Holmes insisted you move in tomorrow,” Malcolm said.

Greg slipped his hands into his pockets and murmured “did he now?”

“The contract will be in your office by the time you arrive at work tomorrow.”

Greg took a long breath. It shouldn’t be possible to hate someone so much and appreciate them so much at the same time. “Look, really,” Greg began. “You can tell Mycroft it’s great. But it’s really not for me. I don’t want him to do me any favours.”

Malcolm handed Greg his phone. Greg turned up his top lip. “What? Oh bloody hell, the bastard’s on the phone isn’t he?” Greg took it. “What?” he asked roughly.

“Now, now, Greg,” Mycroft murmured. That voice made Greg’s voice catch.

He glanced at Malcolm and walked over to the window. He looked out into the dark street. “I appreciate it, Mycroft. But it’s too much.”

“Nonsense.”

“I’m going to spend every day thinking I owe you something.”

“You don’t. Although, you could show Sherlock the Kirkcudbright files.”

Greg couldn’t help it. He burst out laughing. “As far as bribes go, this is the most ridiculous one I’ve ever had.”

“You can still have the flat, even if you don’t,” Mycroft said. Greg smiled and thought he could hear Mycroft’s amusement on the other end of the line. He looked at the clean windowsill. This place was too good for him but…

“Fine. I’ll take it if it makes you happy,” Greg said.

“It does,” Mycroft confirmed. Greg turned and looked around at the room.

“I’ll have you round for pizza sometime,” he said. “You can bring the wine.”

The pause on the other end gave Greg enough time to think he’d overstepped the line. Then Mycroft spoke just before Greg was about to start back-pedalling. “I would like that.”

Greg swallowed. “Right. Then. Well. Thanks. Have a good trip.”

“Goodnight, Greg.”

“Night.” Greg held the phone to his ear until the beep confirmed the man had hung up. Greg handed Malcolm the phone back. “Right, so, contracts on my desk in the morning?” he asked.

Malcolm nodded. “Yes, sir.”

Greg followed him back out and shook his hand again as he looked up at the building. He walked back to the Yard to pick up his car. When he got to his current flat and looked at the mould, saw his own breath and got into bed shivering he decided to cast his pride away.

Just this once.

 

* * *

 

Mycroft had sent the car to pick Greg up from work. Greg had been hoping to leave at a reasonable hour but then Mycroft’s assistant had called, telling him Mr Holmes urgently required his help. And Greg found he was incapable of saying no to a certain Mr Holmes nowadays.

He watched out of the window as he was driven to Mycroft’s home.

Cars streaked past, and he found himself checking his phone. Since he and Caroline had broken up, he marvelled at how little people seemed to contact him now. He used to be on his phone regularly, sharing messages with her, planning football matches with her friends’ husbands. He hadn’t really thought about it before, but their friends really were all hers. He hadn’t found cause to miss them all that much.

Greg stared as they pulled up to the imposing white building on Pall Mall. “Welcome to Crusader House, Detective Inspector,” the driver said. “I’ll show you the way.”

Greg put his coat and scarf on, tucking his phone in his pocket. He thought of what little he knew of Mycroft, but it made sense that his home would be a replica of him: dramatic and intimidating. And a little bit showy. No wonder Mycroft had been so disgusted by his original flat and found him a new one.

Greg followed the driver up the stairs, up to the third floor. He gave the door three brisk taps. “It’s Jim Braum. I’ve got Detective Inspector Lestrade with me.”

The door was opened by a man wearing a black suit, with a lined face. “Detective Inspector. Do follow me.”

Greg glanced at the driver who was already turning to walk back down the stairs. Greg followed the man - a butler, really? - down the long corridor. He opened a door. “Mr Holmes is expecting you.”

Greg stepped into a large living area, with dark red wallpapered walls, and several floor to ceiling bookcases against them. In front of him was a brown leather sofa, a fire roaring opposite it. Just where Greg would have put a television, if this had been his place. The fire was much more ‘Mycroft’, whatever that meant.

Greg looked around, frowning. The man who was supposedly ‘expecting him’ was no where to be seen. He stepped towards a bookcase, reading the spines. They all looked old. Greg grinned when he saw a title called The Romance Of Lust. Just as he was tempted to pull it out and see just how lustful it was, Mycroft walked from a room. “Good evening,” he said, dressed in his usual fully turned-out suit, but looking somewhat more at ease than he usually did.

Greg turned and looked at him. “Alright. I was just admiring your library.”

Mycroft gave a smile which didn’t reach his eyes. “It’s a few bookcases, hardly a library.”

“It’s more than I’ve got.”

Mycroft smiled a bit more. Greg watched his lips. “Would you like a drink?” Mycroft asked.

“Yeah, go for it. I’ll have whatever you’re having.”

Mycroft walked to a table. On top was a decanter and three glasses. “It is a brandy kind of evening,” he said as he poured. Greg folded his arms, watching him. He took off his coat and scarf, looking around for somewhere to put them. Was there a coat rail or something? Mycroft looked at him. “Just put them on a chair. And please, sit down.”

Greg walked around the sofa, sitting down on it. He put his coat down on the floor beside it. He adjusted the cushion at his back. “Nice place this.”

“Yes,” Mycroft murmured.

“Tell me about it.”

“I’m sorry?” Mycroft looked bemused as he handed Greg a glass.

“The place. How old is it?”

“Oh.” Mycroft tilted his head, a small frown upon his face. “It was built from 1892 to 1893. It was the work of W.S. Joseph and C.J. Smithem. It is four-storey building, a bit of a hotch-potch of styles attempting to replicate the French Renaissance architecture. I chose the third floor for my living quarters owing to its balcony. Some staff and offices are on the forth floor.”

Greg looked around. “Well, I’m glad you’ve got the fire on, it’s pretty cold.” Mycroft took a chair opposite him. “So now you’ve got me here. What did you want to ask me?”

“How is Sherlock?” Mycroft asked.

“He’s fine. Keeps asking me about the Kirkcudbright case. Thanks for that, by the way.”

Mycroft half-smiled. “I maintain he will be of use.”

“Yeah. Maybe.”

Mycroft opened his mouth as though to speak, paused and took a sip of his brandy instead. “I have some paperwork I would like you to sign before I inform you of the purpose of this visit.”

Greg raised his eyebrows. “Paperwork? You know I have enough paperwork at work to deal with, right?” He watched as Mycroft silently left the room, walking through a thick mahogany door.

Greg tapped his fingers against his leg. Mycroft peered around the door. “Come this way,” he said.

Greg got up, taking his drink through with him. He found he was led into Mycroft’s office, a dark wooden desk in the middle of one wall, which was darkly painted, darker than the lounge. There was a portrait of the Queen behind the desk. Greg looked at Mycroft. “Something you need to tell me?” he asked, looking at it.

Mycroft looked at the picture. “Oh, standard procedure,” he muttered. Greg didn’t bother to ask what that meant.

Greg walked over to the desk. “So, what is all this?” he asked. Mycroft handed him some papers. Greg looked down at them. “I don’t get it.”

“I’m raising your clearance level,” Mycroft said.

“Clearance?”

“I took a case off your hands. Involving a Russian woman found at a bus stop.”

“I remember,” Greg said stiffly.

“Most policemen would not be desperately unhappy with that. It was a difficult case to solve, and you knew it. It was not going to show on your statistics, and it was a murder case off your books and into someone else’s hands. But you are not most policemen, Detective Inspector. Now please, sign that paperwork and I can tell you what you want to know.”

“I need to read it,” Greg said, taking the seat on the other side of the desk.

“Of course,” Mycroft murmured, sipping from his glass.

Greg glanced at him before turning his attention to the paperwork. He could tell Mycroft had gone to a bit of trouble to get these documents for him. All talking about official secrets and jail and national security. He looked at Mycroft. “You seriously want me to sign these?” he asked.

“I would like to tell you about the case. Whether you choose to sign them is entirely up to you.”

Greg skim-read the documents again before picking up a pen from Mycroft’s desk. He printed and signed his name, filling in the date. The pen flowed across the paper like any expensive pen should. Mycroft nodded at him and collected the papers, closing them into a drawer.

“Let’s return to the living room,” he said. “It is far more comfortable.”

Greg stood up, casting one last quick look around Mycroft’s office before walking out. He walked to the table with the decanter, topping up his own drink. He saw Mycroft’s amused expression as he filled the glass. “I’ll top up yours too,” Greg grinned.

Mycroft smiled and held out his glass, allowing Greg to fill it. Greg sipped his brandy as he walked back to the sofa, returning to the place he’d sat on before. To his surprise, Mycroft took a seat on the other end of the sofa.

Mycroft looked into his glass, a slight frown between his eyes before he started to speak. “The woman’s name was Tatiana Garzone. And her husband was a spy for the Federal Security Service Of The Russian Federation.” Mycroft let out a slow breath before looking at Greg. “I don’t know how much to say,” he finally said.

Greg looked at him, confused. “Surely you can say as much or as little as you want? I mean, I signed that document stuff, so you know better than me what you can tell me.”

“Yes, quite,” Mycroft agreed. “As much as it may surprise you, Greg, my role in the British Government is slightly more than I have told you in the past.”

Greg chuckled. “No shit,” he said.

Mycroft half-smiled. “I’m not sure how much I should disclose.”

Greg hesitated. He wanted to say ‘everything’ but something stopped him. “Just as much as you want,” he said.

Mycroft looked surprised at him but murmured: “Very well. My position in the British Government overlaps between several roles. It is not a job anyone has held before, nor do I expect they will again. I have found I have made myself… invaluable, to certain people in numerous areas of the country’s national and international security. Quite by chance, you understand. Much of my career has been spent dealing with our international security, although I find this is gradually expanding in both national and international matters and involving more… diplomatic concerns. I expect diplomacy will be coming into my role more and more in the next few years.”

Greg swallowed, tightening his grip on his glass. Jesus actual Christ he thought…

Mycroft looked at him. “I don’t expect this will be the last case I take off your hands, Greg.”

Greg nodded. “Yeah. I kind of guessed that,” he said.

“You’re surprised I went to you myself,” Mycroft said, watching him.

Greg nodded. “Yeah. Well. You could have gone higher than me. Much higher. I mean, my team heard about the body first, but it doesn’t give us ownership of that case or anything.”

Mycroft looked straight at him and Greg fought to hold his eyes. “I trust you,” Mycroft said plainly. Greg’s eyes widened and Mycroft smiled in response.

Greg tilted his head. “Um. Well. That’s good, right?”

“I believe so,” Mycroft confirmed. “To the matter at hand. Tatiana Garzone’s husband was killed six months ago. In Romania, I believe, although that has never been confirmed. The fact she was murdered is no coincidence, and that is what we are investigating.”

Greg frowned, trying to absorb this information. “So you’re no closer to finding the bastard who killed her?”

“Sadly no. But we will continue trying.”

Greg sat back in the chair, finishing his drink. “Thank you,” he finally said. He looked at Mycroft. “I get that you didn’t need to tell me all that. But the fact you did… well, I do appreciate it.”

Mycroft smiled warmly in return and finished his own drink. Greg held his glass out. “Top up?” he asked.

Mycroft tilted his head in momentary surprise. He took the glass and stood and Greg couldn’t help but grin at the concept of Mycroft waiting on him. Greg took the time to watch him, looking at his back through the pinstripe jacket.

Mycroft walked back with Greg’s drink. Greg took it from him, his finger brushing against Mycroft’s. He ignored how it made his heart race as Mycroft sat back down. “So, don’t you have a TV?”

Mycroft chuckled. “I do have a television. I don’t tend to watch it.”

“What do you do for fun?”

“I’m sorry?” Mycroft asked.

“Fun. How do you have it?”

“I enjoy my work.”

“That’s not fun,” Greg laughed. “Alright, forget fun. How do you relax?”

“I read a book. I listen to some music.”

“Do you play games?”

Mycroft smiled a little. “What sort of games?”

“Cards? Not chess, you’ll beat me hands down in five minutes.”

Mycroft stood, and brought the decanter over to the table. He left the room and Greg downed much of his brandy before topping it up again.

Mycroft returned a few moments later with a leather-covered box. “Cards,” he said, sitting down and setting the box on the table. He opened it and took them out. The backs bore repeated patterns of a coat of arms. He tipped them into his hand and began to shuffle them, with elegant, expert precision. Greg watched his hands, mesmerised by the speed in which he shuffled them, not even watching while he did so. “So then what are we playing, Greg?”

Greg snapped his head up as he spoke and thought for a moment. “Ever played Bullshit?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Bullshit. You divide the cards between us, and you have to get rid of your cards in order, face down. Aces, twos, threes, fours and so on. But if you don’t have the next card in the sequence you obviously have to lie. And it’s the other player’s job to call you on it. But if you call it wrong, you have to take the pack. First person to get rid of their cards wins.”

“I don’t particularly see this game ending very well for you,” Mycroft said, beginning to deal.

“What you trying to say?”

“That I already know when you’re lying.”

“I’ve never lied to you,” Greg said. Mycroft’s eyes lifted and met his. Greg stared back.

Mycroft pressed his lips together and murmured. “Very well.” He took a slow, deliberate sip of his drink. “You may go first,” he instructed.

Greg looked at his cards. A test, he thought. He set down a seven, but said ‘four’.

Mycroft chose a card and murmured ‘five’.

“Bullshit,” Greg said.

Mycroft let out a half-smile. “I take it you have all the fives?” Mycroft asked, looking at the cards he picked up. He frowned. “You lied with the first card?”

“Testing you,” Greg said.

Mycroft looked momentarily unsure before breaking into a big smile. “I find this game to be unexpectedly appealing.”

They played the full round out. Greg found he quite liked listening to Mycroft swear every time he called Greg out for lying about his card. But Greg had a better poker face than Mycroft had evidently expected. Mycroft smiled with pleasure when he put his final card down. “Three,” he said smugly.

“Bullshit,” Greg said.

Mycroft turned the card. It was indeed a three, and he’d won. Mycroft chuckled. Greg grinned and finished his drink. “I’d never have let you live it down if I’d won,” Greg said. “It’s probably better this way.”

“Indeed,” Mycroft agreed.

Greg reached and topped their glasses up, aware Mycroft wasn’t keeping the same pace as he was. Mycroft sat back in his seat, savouring his drink.

Greg knocked his back with a long gulp. Mycroft raised his eyebrows. “That’s a 1973 vintage,” he said watching him.

“And it’s good,” Greg agreed. “You know, Mycroft, for a man who claims to know me so well you look surprised at me quite a lot.”

“You are impulsive,” Mycroft said. “And that can be terribly difficult to predict.”

“So I do surprise you?”

“Frequently,” Mycroft agreed.

“Is that a good thing?”

“You’d be amazed how rarely I am ever shocked by anything. I find it strangely refreshing.”

Greg looked at him. He moved his head and felt his surroundings catch up a few milliseconds later. Tipsy then. Mycroft was watching him, a small smile on his lips.

Greg put his glass down on the table. Mycroft lifted his head a fraction, sticking out his chin. Greg reached out, taking the glass from Mycroft’s hands and setting it down on the table beside his. Mycroft kept his eyes firmly on his.

Greg folded his arms across his chest. “I don’t get you, Mycroft,” he said. “I really don’t get you at all.”

The smile left Mycroft’s face. “I’m not here with you to make friends, Greg.”

“Good,” Greg replied. “That’s good.” He moved one leg up onto the sofa, before sliding along it. Mycroft did not flinch. “So then. What are you here for?” he asked. “You always call me and tell me to see you. Could just as easily ask about Sherlock on the phone.” Greg reached out and touched his shoulder. “I think you like to see me.”

They watched each other. Like two animals ready to engage in combat, testing each other, circling.

Mycroft wet his lips with his tongue. Greg swallowed as he watched. He lifted his hand to touch Mycroft’s jaw. It was closely-shaved, soft against his hand. Mycroft’s face tilted into it and Greg sighed, suddenly losing his nerve. “Your move,” he muttered.

After a few long seconds, Mycroft slowly put his hand down on Greg’s thigh. It was hot against Greg’s leg and Greg found himself grinning. He leaned forward and slammed their lips together. He felt Mycroft’s mouth submit to his immediately.

Their teeth clanged together as they battled to take charge. Greg had forgotten what it was like to kiss. Two months without it, and he couldn’t get enough. Intoxicating. And kissing another man, well, he couldn’t even remember how long it had been when Mycroft was doing that with his tongue. Fuck.

Greg let out a shaky breath as Mycroft’s lips sucked on his bottom one, a tongue making a deliberate swipe out to taste. Eager to take back some control, Greg closed a possessive hand around the back of Mycroft’s neck and Mycroft’s hands moved to his back, pulling him closer. Their bodies pressed against each other, Greg felt himself grow hard, the only sounds he could make out were his quiet groans and the only feeling in the world he could cling to was Mycroft’s tongue touching his.

Greg felt Mycroft’s fingers curl tightly into his shirt, digging almost painfully into his shoulder. Mycroft’s teeth gently bit his lip and Greg couldn’t hold back the low groan he emitted.

He found himself being shoved back onto the couch, Mycroft’s mouth still exploring his, fingers rubbing his right nipple through his shirt. For someone who hadn’t made the first move, the man was in charge now. Back in control.

One of Mycroft’s hands was beside Greg’s head as he held his body up over Greg’s, the other fumbling with the zip on his jeans. Greg reached down to help him undo the fastenings, and he arched up as Mycroft’s hand wrapped firmly around his length over the top of his black underwear.

Mycroft lifted his head and held Greg’s eyes as he moved his hand, squeezing and loosening it with expert precision.

“Please,” Greg whispered, immediately embarrassed by the sheer need he heard in his voice. He felt Mycroft’s own want against his thigh, and it only made him more desperate.

Mycroft shoved his hand inside Greg’s boxers, and Greg shuddered as his hand closed around him. His thumb swiped over the head and Greg shut his eyes hard, pushing his hips up, urging the man on.

He let the feelings wash over him for a few moments. Greg opened his eyes, reaching for Mycroft’s belt. “You don’t need to,” Mycroft murmured.

“I really fucking do,” Greg breathed out, his hands trembling as he unfastened it and pulled the leather out. He threw it on the floor, cupping Mycroft through the fabric. Mycroft shuddered, his hand stilling on Greg’s cock.

Greg made swift work of the buttons, pushing his trousers and underwear down over his thighs. He watched his hand as he wrapped his fingers around Mycroft’s prick. It was long, hard and hot in his hand, precome already leaking from the tip. Longer than Greg’s. God, he wanted that inside him, in his mouth, anywhere, he didn’t really care. It had been too long since he’d given any kind of pleasure to a man, Greg thought. He forgot the hot need of it, that erotic feeling, how different it was. How right…

Mycroft crushed their mouths together, his previously expert kisses giving way to wet, panting ones as Greg continued to rock his hips into Mycroft’s hand. A masterful twist of Mycroft’s wrist had Greg pressing his heels into the sofa and coming hard over his hand and his own underwear.

He kept his movements up on Mycroft’s cock, his hand moving as quickly as he could while trying to ignore the way his wrist was cramping. Mycroft’s face was pressed into his shoulder, and Greg tried to slow down his breathing so he could make out the heavy breaths Mycroft was making. Mycroft’s body shuddered.

Greg watched his hand on Mycroft’s cock, wishing he could see his face, watch his control slip away as he came undone…

Mycroft came with a gasp against his shoulder, a very soft faint ‘oh’ escaping his lips as he sagged against Greg. Greg slowly withdrew his hand and held it above Mycroft’s shoulder, not wanting to dirty his suit more than he had done already.

Mycroft sagged against Greg’s body, and with his clean hand, Greg couldn’t resist running his fingers through his brown hair.

His back felt sticky under the hot leather of the chair.

He closed his eyes and listened to Mycroft’s breath as he fought to get it back to normal. He made a soft noise, his surroundings coming back into focus.

Mycroft lifted his head and pressed a lazy kiss to the corner of Greg’s mouth. He stood, withdrawing his hand from Greg’s boxers and sitting up to adjust himself. “I will just go to the bathroom,” he said, not looking at Greg.

Greg watched his flushed face, his tie sticking haphazardly out of his waistcoat, his top trouser button still undone. Greg hoped he could imprint that image on his memory, just in case he never saw it again.

When Mycroft returned, he looked less rumpled and as though he’d thrown water over his face. Greg accepted the tissue and cleaned himself up. “I should go, I’ve got work tomorrow.”

“Yes,” Mycroft said stiffly.

Greg nodded. “Thanks for the game and the drink.” And the orgasm. “We should do this again sometime.”

Mycroft gave him a half smile. “I don’t imagine I will be looking for a repeat performance anytime soon.”

“Was it that bad?” Greg frowned.

“On the contrary. But I am far too busy to devote much time to such self-indulgent practises.”

Greg fixed his clothing. His boxers felt wet. A surprisingly sexy reminder of what had just taken place. With Mycroft Holmes. That might take a bit of getting used to. Greg laughed. “Having sex isn’t self-indulgent. It’s fun.”

He stood up and put his scarf and coat on. Mycroft stood too, and Greg nodded at him. “Have a good trip,” Greg said.

Mycroft reached out and squeezed Greg’s shoulder. “Thank you. I will be in touch.”

Greg smiled a little and walked out of Mycroft’s living area and back out into the corridor. The man didn’t want a repeat performance and would be in touch. Talk about mixed signals…

“Can I get you a car sir?” the butler asked.

Greg hesitated. “Nah. I’m just going to walk.”

He strolled out of Crusader House, taking in the cool air. He pulled his coat tighter around himself. His head felt clear for the first time in months during the 15 minute walk to his flat. 


	13. Sound Of The City

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For gurrier, Velma, KingTaran, beccab, ShipsIntoDarkness and Spooky831 - to know you all enjoyed a chapter I loved writing and was worried about made me very happy.  
> The next few updates might take a little while longer. While my writing pace has increased, chapters have found themselves growing to between 5,000 and 8,000 words a pop. Which is quite a hard pace to maintain! But stick with me. Because I will end this story sometime. When the boys let me, anyway!

_January, 2006_

When Sherlock had walked into New Scotland Yard two days later, Greg initially felt apprehensive. He was sure he’d take one look at him and yell ‘I can’t believe you had sex with my brother!’ in front of the entire building.

But thankfully, Greg seemed to have been good at hiding what had happened and Mycroft obviously hadn’t let it slip. And Greg was certain if Sherlock had known, he wouldn’t have heard the end of it.

Greg spent the day going through more files and ignoring Sherlock intermittently asking “what’s the Kirkcudbright case?”

With Sherlock lying on his back on the floor and his hands steepled under his chin, Greg allowed himself to think that this really was the most bizarre partnership he had ever been a part of.

“What’s your ex wife’s perfume?” Sherlock asked after a while.

“What?” Greg muttered, clicking furiously on his mouse as the computer froze.

“Your ex-wife. Her perfume. What is it?”

“I don’t know,” Greg said.

“Neither do I. I need to know. Buy me some perfume.”

“Shut up, Sherlock.”

“It could be pertinent to cases I solve for you in the future. What if it’s pertinent to the Kirkcudbright case and you don’t buy me perfume and it remains unsolved?”

Greg rolled his eyes. “It isn’t.”

“Could be.”

“Isn’t,” Greg replied.

“Molly will get me perfume,” Sherlock decided. “Hers is decidedly cheap smelling, but it would give me a place to start. What did you do with my brother?”

Do. Brother. Shit. “What?” Greg choked out, looking at him.

“Mycroft has found you a new flat, I wondered what you’d done to endear yourself to him. He doesn’t do favours for just anybody. In fact he only does favours for me, so this is most surprising.”

“I put up with you every day, that’s what I did.” Greg turned back to his screen, clenching his teeth.

Sherlock crossed his arms. “I’m bored. Find me something new to do. Give me the Kirkcudbright case.”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s my case,” Greg said, knowing full-well that wouldn’t mean anything to Sherlock.

“And it’s obviously going so well,” Sherlock said sarcastically, looking at him. “Lestrade! I’m bored. And you know what happens when I get bored.”

Greg rolled his eyes. “I’m not giving you the case.”

“Fine. I’ll just go and get some heroin.”

“No you bloody well aren’t!” Greg stood up, his hands on his hips. “For God’s sake, Sherlock.” Sherlock had his lips pressed together, watching Greg expectantly from the floor. “Fine. Go and buy some perfume.” Greg took £20 out of his wallet and handed it over. “Go write it up and put it on the internet or something. I’m sure you’ll find some nutter willing to read it.”

“I might just do that.” Sherlock looked at the money and kept his hand outstretched. Greg glared at him. “Perfume is expensive,” Sherlock explained. “I need a wide range of samples.”

Greg gave him another £10 and sat back down, exasperated.

Sherlock collected his coat and put it on. He held his hand out. “So, I’ll just take the Kirkcudbright files with me to look over.”

“Piss off.”

Sherlock huffed and walked out.

Count to 10, Greg thought. Count to 10 and it’ll all be okay. He took a deep breath and turned back to his work.

 

* * *

 

Greg got home late to his new flat. He walked around the corner to a late-night cafe on the way back home, picking up a sandwich and a sausage roll.

He let himself in and retrieved a beer from the fridge.

Switching the television on, he stretched out along the sofa. He knew there was the prospect of a day off tomorrow. There weren’t any live football matches on, so Greg watched some stand-up comedy, cringing his way through Michael Macintyre.

 

* * *

 

His body jolted up as he heard a shout. Who was shouting? What happened? Shit. No. No… That was his own voice. His own shout. He gripped the cushion, pulling it to his face and covering it. He breathed in what little air he could with it blocking his nose, noted the tightness in his chest.

He looked around the room, fumbling for his phone. He winced as he turned it on, realising he’d fallen asleep on the sofa. At least he’d turned the television off first.

This really was turning into a terrible habit. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a night where he’d slept all the way through. Things hadn’t been this bad since _that_ case and at least then he’d had Caroline to drag him through it all.

The only night he’d had a good sleep this month was after he and Mycroft had… no. He wasn’t going to think about that.

He stood up and switched the lamp on, walking to the window. He rubbed the back of his neck. The road was still except for a taxi waiting expectantly outside the building opposite.

It was all too silent. His old flat had been along an incredibly busy road, a road near clubs, bars and pubs. A road with a rumbling underbelly of indecency. It was busy and it was loud. Caroline had hated it, and was often looking through the property section in the paper. When Greg accepted this flat, he hadn’t realised how dead it would be outside. Of course, even if he had realised, he didn’t know until this moment how much that really mattered to him.

He shivered.

Bed. He should be in it.

He closed the curtains, double-checked his door was locked and walked into his new room. 

 

* * *

 

_February, 2006_

Greg and Sally shielded themselves under a railway bridge. “There’s got to be a better way to do this,” Sally muttered, tightening her scarf.

“There isn’t,” Greg replied. “How else do you find out what’s going on on the street except to be on the street?”

“We don’t have the resources for this.”

“We do when our big serial murder case is linked to drug gangs.”

Sally rubbed her hands together. “Did you see that story on the BBC yesterday?”

“What one?” Greg asked, lighting a cigarette.

“About the guy that married a goat.”

Greg laughed. “No.”

“I can’t remember what country it was. But he was caught having sex with it and so the village elders made him marry it.” Greg laughed. Sally inclined her head and murmured, “over there, sir.”

Greg glanced over. “I arrested that guy about 18 months ago. He did some time for possession. Low ranking dealer.”

“If they’re out on the street, they’re all low-ranking, Lestrade. We’ve been coming out for three weeks now. There’s no way some guy in a smart suit will be caught dead chatting to them.”

“It’s all we’ve got, Donovan. We’ve narrowed it down to an area. I don’t really know what else we can do.”

Sally yawned.

“Alright,” Greg declared. “I get the point. We’ll call it a night. But don’t think I’m happy about it.”

They drove home, cold and tired.

 

* * *

 

It was a week later when he received a message from Sherlock.

 

MESSAGES        Sherlock Holmes  
4.20pm: Come to 22 Serle Street.  
Now. Important. SH

 

Greg was sat at his desk when the text came through, wondering if he would be able to finish work on time. Get home by 5.15pm. That’d be a new one. At first he was tempted to text back and ask what exactly what was going on that was so urgent. But curiosity got the better of him a few moments later.

He grabbed his coat, heading out to his car. He turned the radio up loud, singing along to The Killers. He pulled up outside the house.

It looked nice from the outside. He knocked on the door but received no answer. He frowned, glanced around and quietly let himself in. He put his hand over his mouth and made a retching sound as he walked in. It was worse than some of the crime scenes he'd been to. And many of those had been appalling.

"Lestrade!" he heard from one of the rooms and he walked through.

Sherlock was sat in an old wooden chair by the window. A skinny man with blond hair and haunted eyes was throwing clothing into a rucksack. "Sherlock,” Greg said. “What's up?"

Sherlock gestured towards the man. "He knows about Mac," he said.

Greg looked at the man. "Really? Why are you packing?"

"Irrelevant," Sherlock muttered, folding his arms.

"I'm taking off," the man said. "Gettin' outta London."

"Why?" Greg asked.

"You think I wanna hang round here with all this goin' on?" the man asked. "Gonna wind up dead."

Greg raised his eyebrows at Sherlock. "And you call that irrelevant?"

"It's obvious," Sherlock muttered.

Greg rolled his eyes and took a seat on the bed. "What's your name?"

"Leroy."

"And what are you afraid of?"

"I told Sherlock this already,” the man groaned.

"Now tell me," Greg said.

Leroy closed his bag and sat down on the bed. "I worked for Mac for 12 years. I used to be based in Hackney. Mac changed set up about 18 months ago. He started working for some new guy-"

"-Wait, so Mac's not top of the food chain?"

"Nah, mate. Mac does what he's told. I dunno by who. I just do what Mac says so I get paid. Anyways, I got moved here. Then people started being killed. People I worked with, man, for years. It's weird, mate. Normally when you get two gangs, you just get your gun out. But they ain't done that. So, some bloke was killing us off with poison in heroin. Mac started his own revenge. Couple of blokes got stabbed, dumped in the Thames. But that man who was strung up by his arms? Found him just before Christmas, right?"

Greg nodded.

"Nothing to do with Mac,” the man said. “Nothing to do with the other gang. It's summat else. And that's why I'm gettin' outta here."

Greg exchanged looks with Sherlock. Mac was killing dealers. Dealers were being killed by… "Two killers,” Greg muttered, realisation dawning on his face.

Sherlock began to smile. "Told you this was important."

"How did we miss that?" Greg asked, rubbing his face.

"You missed that. I didn't."

"And why are you telling me this now? You never miss an opportunity to tell me I'm wrong."

"Because I needed more data. And I found Leroy here." So Sherlock had been hanging out with dealers again. Fucking fantastic.

"I'm making you piss in a pot later,” Greg said. Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Hang on,” Greg said, thinking. “So. The bodies in the house and the man tied up to the sign..."

"A different killer," Sherlock agreed.

"The man on the sign wasn't one of Mac's," Leroy said. "There's just a feelin', man. A feelin' like we ain't safe on the streets. And these are blokes who have been doin' this for years. Even Mac's been tellin' us to find new areas. Y'know, you could just be doin' a deal with some dude, he gets out a needle, stabs you, strings you up and lets you die like that."

"He's got to be strong," Greg said.

"They're weak when the convulsions start," Sherlock said. "They can't fight back."

"Speaking from experience, Sherlock?" Greg asked, a bit more aggressively than he’d intended. He was still bitter over it then, he realised. Sherlock glared at him.

Greg tapped his fingers against his thigh as he spoke the case out. "Right. So now we've got dealers being killed by dealers, those dealers killing back and both sets of dealers being killed by... by who exactly?"

Sherlock beamed. "Oh I love this game."

Leroy picked his backpack up and put it on his shoulders. "Right. I'm off. Good luck with it all."

"Hang on! Hang on!” Greg held his arm out in front of Leroy, cutting off his exit. “How do I find Mac?"

"You think I'll tell you that? He'd kill me."

"Does he have another name at least?"

"Dunno," Leroy said.

"Let him go, Lestrade," Sherlock said. "We're done here."

"You don't get to make that decision, Holmes," Greg replied. They held each other's eyes, before Greg muttered with some reluctance, "fine. Go." Leroy left the room in a hurry. Sherlock stood up and looked at the chair.

"Will this fit in your car?" he asked.

"Yeah. Why?"

Sherlock picked it up and shoved it into Greg's arms. "For my flat," he said. 

Greg clenched his jaw and carried it out to his car, putting it on the back seats. "So, where am I taking you?" he asked.

"Home. And then we can discuss me going undercover."

"Sherlock..."

"I'll fill you in on the benefits of me going undercover when we get back. I'm going to spend the journey thinking."

"Why don't you let your brother help you switch your brain off?" Greg asked.

Sherlock frowned and huffed. "Mycroft interfering again."

"He's not," Greg said. "I was just curious." 

 

* * *

 

Greg turned the radio on and left Sherlock typing on his phone. They arrived at Sherlock's flat with Greg carrying the chair while Sherlock continued to tap away. Greg looked around and pulled a face. "Bloody hell. Didn't take long to make this place a tip, did it? And what the hell is that?" Greg picked up a jar on the table. He sniffed it. "Uch! Sherlock!"

"It's an experiment. For my blog."

"You have a blog?"

"Yes, started it yesterday."

"A blog?" Greg grinned.

"Don't look so surprised. It was the only good idea you've ever had."

Greg chose to ignore that comment. Sherlock actually did something he’d suggested. There was a moment to savour if ever he’d heard one. "What did you call it?"

"The Science of Deduction."

"And what's this?" Greg held the bottle out.

"Analysis of perfumes. Your wife's philandering inspired me." Sherlock continued to send messages on his phone, his fingers sprinting over the keys.

"Who are you texting?" Greg asked.

"Contacts," Sherlock said, slumping into the chair.

"Since when do you have contacts?"

"Since I started going undercover."

"Sherlock-"

"Oh don't start. I found Leroy, didn't I?"

Greg took a seat at Sherlock's desk, frowning. "Sherlock, I told you about this before-"

"I'm doing it for myself. Not officially. I'll let you know when I find something useful. Probably," Sherlock added, putting his phone down. He looked at Greg. "Stop looking like that, Inspector."

"Sherlock. I gave you access to this case because I like your insights. But I'm not letting you go undercover. I can't."

"Why?"

"Because it involves drugs, Sherlock, and you're an addict."

Sherlock snorted. "I am not an addict. Look. Test me! Test me next week! You can test me every day. You've searched my flat every week since September. Have you found anything? No."

Greg sighed and looked around the flat. He had to concede that point. "Alright. Come on. Why do you need to be undercover?"

"Because you're never going to find anything stood on a street corner with Sally Donovan. Even in plain clothes, you're totally conspicuous. I, on the other hand, have experienced drug dealers and addicts in their natural habitat and can fit in. I have been spending the last few weeks finding some key people and know I can find your killer."

"Which one?" Greg asked.

"Both. The first one will be easy. They brag about it. The second. Well, the second is the best one. He's tricky, hard to read, has no clear motive. He's a copy-cat with his own style. I like him. He's intriguing."

"Even if you find them, I need evidence to charge them and then get a conviction. I won't be able to do that if you're undercover without official clearance."

"I'll get you your evidence, Inspector," Sherlock said. Greg looked at him as he reached for his phone and began texting again. When Greg took the job as DI he knew it was about weighing his options. Risk and reward. And he knew he'd already taken almighty risks with Sherlock. Career-on-a-string style risks. But the rewards. Well, the rewards were potentially great. Greg pressed his lips together before standing up.

"Right. I want a text from you every 12 hours. I'm doing a drug test every three days. You stay out of trouble and don't go chasing murderers around yourself. And for God's sake, don't tell your brother."

"Why would I tell Mycroft?"

"I don't know. But I have a feeling it wouldn't go well for me if you did."

"Yes, I suppose you're right," Sherlock said, regarding him.

"Alright," Greg murmured. "But don't say a word to my team. And be careful. If you muck this up-"

"I know," Sherlock said.

And he did know, Greg thought. Because Greg had given him something interesting to do with his ridiculous brain. And he needed this as much as he'd needed the heroin. Risk. Reward. Please be worth it. Greg left Sherlock lying on the sofa, texting at a furious rate.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock was good at his word. In fact, he was better. 

Greg went through the rest of next three weeks with a lot of desk work. He spent one short-staffed night in uniform policing a Premier League match. It had been relatively uneventful. Sherlock kept him up to date. Most of his texts simply said 'nothing new SH' but occasionally Sherlock would offer him something of use. There were still several unnamed bodies, and Sherlock's 'contacts' had given them an identity. Many of the names were nicknames, but good work by Sally and some of her own leads had found the true identities behind the street names.

Sally, of course, was disgusted when she had found out what was going on, but Greg couldn't do it all by himself and he needed Sally’s leads as much as his own.

Sherlock was also providing clean samples. Greg had found one on his desk one morning, and made his displeasure very clear. Molly assured him she had been testing every three days and they had all been clean.

The one person Greg hadn't heard from was Holmes senior. He tried not to be bothered about it. 

Greg had been busy and really he didn't feel like he was desperate for the companionship. Being single was a bit of a revelation as colleagues tried to set him up with friends. He went on one date, and she had been perfectly pleasant and Greg thought he'd be happy to see her again. But while for the last 20 years, he had mostly imagined women when he was alone in the dark with his hand wrapped around his cock, he was now imagining men. And one man more than others.

But Greg decided not to give it too much thought or feel ashamed of it. "Sir. There's a tramp in reception asking for you." Greg frowned at the PC.

"A tramp? Asking for me?" he repeated.

The man nodded.

"Oh bloody hell." Greg followed the PC out and couldn't help but laugh when he saw Sherlock sitting there, a grumpy expression on his face. He looked mucky, and his clothes like they'd been picked out of a bin. "Come on, follow me," Greg said, grinning.

Sherlock glared at the PC as he followed Greg behind the desk and towards his office. Greg braced himself when Sally saw them. "What the heck's he done now?" she asked, hands on hips.

"Oh, Sally, you have brightened my day," Sherlock muttered sarcastically. "Single again? I am surprised."

"Sherlock! Donovan! Break it up,” Greg said as he opened the door to his office. "God, you stink," he said as Sherlock strolled past him and took a seat at his desk. He sat down and looked at him expectantly. "So. What have we got?"

"You wanted evidence, Lestrade. I got you evidence."

Greg rested his chin on his hand. "I'm listening."

"17 Onslow Street. You'll find rat poison and wallets from the rat run victims. I suggest you raid it quickly though, as there is talk of them leaving."

"You got a name?" Greg asked, firing up his computer.

"There are enough drugs to secure a prosecution for the people you find there. And yes, I know your man, Inspector. Or rather, men. I will point them out when you bring them in."

"And our second killer?"

"Has evaded me thus far. Which is why you may as well arrest the others. They don't know who the second murderer is."

Greg looked at him. "What are you doing now?"

"I'm staying undercover," Sherlock said. "I'm getting close."

Greg stood up. "Right, I'm going to start assembling a team. Good work." He waited for Sherlock to leave the Yard before taking a long breath. Trying not to consider the paperwork he would need to word carefully to justify this raid, he walked back out and collected Sergeant Carter. "I want the drug squad and our team on an operation together."

"When for, sir?"

"We're leaving at 6pm. I'll go through the details at 4pm."

"I'll sort it, Lestrade. What case?"

"Rat run."

Carter grinned at him and patted his shoulder. "I'll assemble the team."

It was nearly a year since he had been made a Detective Inspector and Greg knew this was crucial to his success within the force. Securing a big drug bust with a big drug gang and capturing a serial killer would boost his reputation. More than that, it would give him some much-needed confidence that he was capable of doing it.

 

* * *

 

He and Carter were in his car, Carter with his phone to his ear keeping track of what was going on with the other teams. Greg listened to the conversation.

"We've got a team at the back in place, the one of the front will be there in 30 seconds," Carter relayed to him. "No other exits. But they're keeping an eye on the windows. It's detached, makes it easier."

"We got enough men?" Greg asked.

"Don't worry, alright? We've got this."

"It's a big case."

"We've got this," Carter repeated.

Greg found a place to park at the front. "So, I just trust the guys then right?"

"Yep. Wait until you can rush in and take the glory."

They listened to the raid on the walkey-talkey, heard the cries of 'stop, police!' and the sounds of arrests, seizures.

Greg's phone rang 10 long minutes later. It was Sally. "Lestrade. Get in here and see what we've got for you. It's like Christmas."

Greg grinned at Carter and they both walked out of the car. The house was dingy, and they immediately walked into a room with an indiscernible amount of cannabis plants. That itself was enough to convince Greg his superiors wouldn't have a problem with the raid. Evidence, he thought. Sherlock brought me evidence.

In another room, two men were cuffed, chests against the walls as they were searched. The officers found knives on both, as well as bags of likely cocaine, cannabis and ecstasy tablets. Sally walked into the room and held out a pot. Along the front was a giant symbol for 'dangerous'. On the back: Strychnine.

Greg felt his shoulders slump as he let out a long breath. Just what he was looking for. Carter patted him on the shoulder. "We got it, sir," he said. "We got it."

Not completely, Greg thought, watching as the men found in the house were led to the cars. They'd be able to charge most of these men with possession and intent to supply, and possession of a weapon. But now they had to prove one or more of them was a murderer. And in the back of his mind, Greg knew it was potentially one down and one still to go. One who had nothing to do with these dealers. Nothing to do with this scene at all. Before driving back to the station, Greg sent Sherlock a text.

 

MESSAGES  
6.51pm: Big drug raid. Need  
you tomorrow for the possible  
murder charge. Thank you.

 

Now he just needed to find a way to explain how he'd figured out where they should carry out a random raid on a random house in London. It had been hard enough gaining the warrant...


	14. This Machine Is Going Wrong

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> KingTaran and Velma - cheers me dears! I reached the 90,000 word mark this weekend. In my head, this fic is divided into six separate phases. This chapter - and the next two - are still in phase two. Just to give it some context. Enjoy, I hope!

_February, 2006_

Greg had been Detective Inspector for a year and he was regularly proud of his team. He didn't always say it. He probably didn't show it enough at times (need to work on that) but he was frequently proud. They worked long hours, dealt with difficult people and kept their wits about them even when they were tired and fed up. But this was the most proud he had ever been of his team. Processing nine men with a variety of drugs and weapon charges as efficiently as they had done was nothing short of extraordinary.

Greg and Carter worked together with one of the communications team to ensure they had an extra special press release drafted for the morning, ready to be mailed out to the local newspapers and radio stations, along with pictures of the cannabis room (journalists jumped on showy pictures like that).

So while Greg got home late (again) he did so with no regret or dissatisfaction about how the afternoon had panned out. Sherlock had text him a simple 'no news' message, informing Greg he was still on the look out for killer number two.

There was the matter of killer number one, of course, but that could wait for now because the number of charges they'd processed this evening deserved a few hours of celebratory reflection.

Greg opened his flat, ready to pull on some pyjamas, put on the football highlights and drink a beer or two. It was the best evening he'd planned for weeks.

Within around three minutes of being home, there was a knock on his door. Greg groaned. Who now? He was astonished to find Mycroft Holmes behind the door, a particularly intense gaze plastered on his face. "Hey," Greg said. "Come on in. I wasn't expecting you."

"Yes, I'm sorry to impose," Mycroft said. "But we need to talk about Sherlock. Urgently."

Greg stepped aside to let him walk in. He frowned and opened the fridge to get a beer. He refused to let the Holmes men ruin his evening and celebrations. "Do you want a drink or food or anything?"

"This is not a social visit,” the other man replied coolly.

Greg pressed his lips together, taking a long deep breath before he turned around to face the man. "Then can’t we do this tomorrow?" he asked,

"Oh yes. You're celebrating,” Mycroft said, a slight sneer on his lips. “But no, I'm afraid not."

Greg opened his beer and slumped in one of the sofas. Mycroft gracefully took a seat on the opposite one. Greg took a long gulp, savouring his cold beer. They stared long and hard at each other for a few moments. Greg looked away. "Go on then. What's your brother done now?"

"It has come to my attention that Sherlock has been frequenting unsavoury parts of London where he is almost certainly coming into contact with heroin."

Greg nodded. "Yeah, I know."

Mycroft pursed his lips. "You know? Yet you continue to work with him?"

"He's clean. Molly tested him yesterday. And three days before that."

"I don't understand,” Mycroft frowned.

"He's undercover," Greg said, trying not to enjoy Mycroft's confusion too much. "He reckons he's found our rat run killer. Well, one of them. He's still hunting the second."

"Second?" Mycroft paused. "Oh yes, I see."

"Do you?"

"Yes,” Mycroft said, as though he’d seen all the evidence for himself. “But you really must pull Sherlock out of there immediately."

"He's doing all right, Mycroft. He's reporting back to me every 12 hours, getting tested every three days. He lets me search his flat whenever I want. I even have a key."

"Alas, I fear where Sherlock is concerned things are never so simple,” Mycroft warned.

"Maybe you should have more faith in your brother?"

"You simply haven't known him as long as I, Detective Inspector."

Greg frowned and folded his arms. "So we're back to 'Detective Inspector' now?"

"This will not end well," Mycroft said, ignoring the question. "And I must urge you to put an end to this strategy immediately."

"Just trust me, alright? I'm keeping a close eye on him."

"I fear two close eyes are never enough."

Greg sighed. "Just give him - and me - the benefit of the doubt, okay? And if it all goes to shit then I'll bow down to your superiority in the future."

"I like to be kept informed, Inspector."

"I get that," Greg said. "But I'm looking after him." Mycroft stood, settling a long gaze on Greg. "You sure I can't get you a drink?" Greg asked.

"No. I must return to work.” Mycroft stood up, and Greg’s eyes slowly browsed the length of his body. "I expect to be kept informed.”

That controlling voice made Greg’s toes curl into the floor. He swallowed and nodded. "See you, Mycroft," he said, his throat feeling constricted, and watched as he turned and walked out of his flat.

Greg let out a long breath. Damn that man. He brushed his hand over the front of his trousers, lifting his hips into his own touch as he felt his half-hard cock. He was almost a little embarrassed Mycroft had that affect on him so quickly.

Greg grabbed his beer and finished the bottle in several long gulps. His arousal beginning to dissipate, he turned his television on and found the football scores.  

 

* * *

 

Sherlock came by early the next day. He still smelt, he still was wearing the same clothes as the last time Greg had seen him, but Greg fully believed Mycroft's fears were unfounded. He didn't have the look of someone who had been using. And Greg had seen him high already once. And he didn't look like that.

Mycroft needed to have a bit more faith.

Sherlock identified three men who he had heard were responsible for the murders. Forensics from Bart's on needles found at the scene found DNA linked to three of the victims.

Sherlock said he'd find the evidence to comprehensively prove which man administered which deadly dose of heroin and rat poison.

Greg's email inbox contained a few messages from his superiors, each congratulating him on the charges. One said 'heard the case was linked to the rat poison murders. Grateful you can wrap that up Lestrade'. Greg hoped he could. He expected if he could prove these men responsible for the majority of these murders then he could prove them responsible for the bodies at the house and the man attached to the sign. The evidence was too coincidental.

But he knew someone else was on the streets. And he didn't want that hanging over him.

 

* * *

 

_March, 2006_

Greg enjoyed the next two weeks. The criminals were going through the Magistrates’ Court, and with fingerprints on the needles (why did they not throw them away?) matching with the suspects' he was pretty confident about the outcome of the case when it reached the Crown Court.

His team were in a great mood. Greg was in a good mood. Until 4.32pm on Friday when he received a call. “Lestrade,” he said, putting his coffee down.

“Hi. Greg. It’s Molly Hooper.”

“Oh, Molly, hi. I don’t think I have your number on my phone, sorry.”

“No, it’s fine,” she said. “Um. But. I think maybe you should know. Sherlock hasn’t been in all week.”

“What?” Greg asked. He leaned on his desk.

“I haven’t seen him since Monday morning.”

Greg frowned. “I had a text from him this morning.”

“Oh. He’s probably okay then. But. We haven’t done any tests since. Just thought you should know.”

“Drug tests?”

“Yes.”

Greg groaned. “Oh bloody hell.”

“Sorry,” Molly said.

“No, don’t worry. I’ll sort it. Cheers, Molly.”

“Bye.”

Greg hung up and slammed his fist down on his desk. Edmund walked into his office. “Everything alright, sir?” he asked.

“Yeah. Fine. Shit!”

Edmund frowned. “Are you sure, sir?”

“Do I seem bloody fine to you?” Greg fumed. “I need you to call…” Who? He wasn’t going to tell Mycroft about this. Bart’s? But Molly was the only one who seemed to give a toss about Sherlock. “Forget it. I’m off out.”

“Out, sir?”

“Yes, out! Like you need to do right now.”

Edmund opened his mouth and closed it before scurrying out of Greg’s office. He faintly heard him ask Sally what was going on, but thankfully she didn’t come to enquire. Greg grabbed his phone and keys, tucking them into his pocket. He sent Sherlock a text.

 

MESSAGES  
4.36pm: Where are you?  
Urgent case come in. I  
need your help.

 

Greg didn’t feel bad about lying. If Sherlock was back on drugs then he didn’t care if the man spent the next month furious at him. God damn it, when had he got so flipping over protective of Sherlock Bloody Holmes? About the time he started having sex with his brother? No, it was before that. Definitely before that.

He took a long drink from his coffee before rushing out of his office. He saw Sally look up at him, but she didn’t say a word as he stormed out of the building toward his car. He clenched his teeth as he drove, turning his CD up loud. He ignored the fact he didn’t really know where to go.

He went to a number of drug addict haunts, each time failing to find Sherlock. In the end, he decided to go to Sherlock’s flat. He let himself in, frowning at the skull on the desk. He sat down on the sofa and checked his texts. God knows how long he’d have to sit here.

He got up and began turning out the drawers of the desk, not caring how much of a mess he left it in. Finding nothing, he went into Sherlock’s bedroom.

He searched in the drawer containing the neatly packed socks and closed it. He frowned. He opened the drawer again and began searching the individually curled up socks. Jackpot.

He pulled out the three needles and felt his heart sink. Like a fucking punch to the gut. He sat down on the edge of Sherlock’s bed. He reached for his phone and searched for Mycroft’s number. His thumb hovered over the call button.

He thought of Sherlock’s brother, half naked and coming over his hand. Better to leave it for the moment. He wasn’t ready to put a definite, comprehensive end to that particular activity any time soon.

So he walked into Sherlock’s sitting room and sat down on the sofa. He hadn’t received a text from the man in question yet. But he would wait. Oh he would wait, alright. And then he was going to bloody murder him. 

 

* * *

 

Sherlock got back into his flat at 2.13am. Greg was asleep on the sofa, but he woke as soon as the door opened and the light from the hallway spread into the room. Sherlock stared at him. “This is my flat. Go and find your own.”

Greg sat up, blinking. He looked at Sherlock and reached into his jacket pocket. He held the syringes out to the man in question.

“I’m undercover. They’re my disguise,” Sherlock protested.

Greg looked at him and shook his head. “I don’t believe you.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and walked to his desk.

“You’re a junkie, Sherlock. You’re a bloody addict. And I’ve seen you high before and I know what it looks like so don’t fucking lie to me.” Sherlock tutted. “And don’t make that sound at me either.”

“What are you doing here, Lestrade? I’m undercover! I’m solving your case.”

Greg knew his temper. He often tried to count to 10. But on this occasion it was never going to work. “You’re fucking high, Sherlock!”

“So what? So what if I have some drugs? Does it matter? I could still solve your cases at 10 times the speed you could. If you even did solve your cases. So sometimes I decide to do what I want with my body, what does it even matter to you if I do?”

“Because you’re going to wind up killing yourself.”

“Oh what does it matter?” Sherlock asked, rolling his eyes. “Everybody dies. Now or in 10 years, what difference does it make?”

“People care about you, Sherlock.” Greg tried to soften his voice. He thought he succeeded a bit.

“They shouldn’t bother,” Sherlock said. “What good does it bring anyone? I mean, just look at Mycroft.” Sherlock said his name with a sneer on his lips.

Greg frowned. “What about him?”

“Mycroft cared so much about me that he ended all his relationships to look after me. It’s pathetic.”

Greg folded his arms. He’d never really thought about Mycroft being in a previous relationship. “Some people might just call that love,” Greg said.

Sherlock snorted. “Mycroft? Love? He controls people, Lestrade. And if that means keeping them happy and giving them flats so he has them just where he wants them then that’s what he’ll do. My brother doesn’t do love. He doesn’t do caring.”

Greg forced out a false laugh and crossed his legs. “Mycroft didn’t get me a flat so he had me where he wanted me.”

Sherlock snorted again, shaking his head with a sardonic grin on his face. “Oh, you are so deluded, Inspector. No wonder he likes keeping you around when you do whatever he asks.”

“I don’t do everything he tells me to, Sherlock.”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. “No? But you’re quite happy to engage with him in… relations. I’m sure he has you precisely where he wants you.”

Greg swallowed. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he muttered defensively.

Sherlock turned his laptop on, ignoring him.

Greg tapped his hand against his thigh. Shit. He was amazed Sherlock had managed to keep that quiet. In fact, he had been amazed Sherlock hadn’t figured it out. He thought he’d been really subtle. He wondered what had given them away, but it wasn’t really the time to ask.

And he wondered if what Sherlock said was true. After all, who knew Mycroft better than his kid brother? “Are there any more syringes?” Greg asked.

Sherlock groaned. “Are you still here?”

“Yeah. I’m still here. Like the idiot I am.”

“Most people are idiots, Lestrade and it was clear from the second I met you that you were not an exception.”

Greg clenched and unclenched his fists. 10, 9, 8, 7… “What are you doing anyway?”

“I’m searching for a man on the internet.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m catching you a serial killer,” Sherlock said, his ‘it’s obvious’ tone in his voice.

“While you’re high?”

“I am capable of doing more than one thing at once. I only had one, and that was a while ago.”

Greg frowned and stood up. He stood over Sherlock’s shoulder. “Kerry Kingsmore?” Greg asked, looking at what he was typing.

“It’s not his real name,” Sherlock said.

“Who is he?”

Sherlock didn’t reply.

“I can look this up at Headquarters,” Greg told him.

“It’s not his real name,” Sherlock repeated distractedly. He looked at Greg. “Oh, actually, great idea. Go and do that. Leave now.” Greg shook his head. Sherlock threw his arms up in exasperation. “What exactly are you after, Inspector?”

“You made me a promise, Sherlock. You said you wouldn’t start on the drugs.” Sherlock shook his head and went back to typing. “You know I have to withdraw your access to Bart’s.” Sherlock ignored him. “And you’re not coming to the Yard until you’re clean. Two weeks.” Greg looked at the syringes in his hand. “Where are the others?”

“There’s a hollowed-out book on the bedside table.”

Greg walked into Sherlock’s bedroom and found the book. He took the two syringes out of it. He sighed as he pocketed them.

“I’ll swing by tomorrow, alright?” Greg said.

Sherlock didn’t say a word as Greg sighed and left.

Greg drove back from Sherlock’s towards New Scotland Yard to dispose of the needles he’d just collected. He pulled up the car and was about to pick them up from the seat. And he hesitated.

If he took them to the Yard he’d have to explain where he’d got them from and despite the jolly good kick up the backside it would give Sherlock, he didn’t want to dump him in it. But he didn’t want them in his flat either. And he really didn’t want to throw them into a bin.

He opened the glove compartment, putting the needles in there. Didn’t the NHS provide a needle collection service or something? He felt uncomfortable leaving them in his car. But not as uncomfortable as he would have felt explaining where they’d come from when he locked them away in the drug box at work.

He slept poorly that night. Too busy worrying about Sherlock and wondering where he’d got this all wrong. And half-wondering about the bed he was lying on, in the flat Mycroft found for him, and whether he was there just because Mycroft wanted him where he could keep an eye on him. And whether what had happened between the two of them was because he was being manipulated. Because Greg was vulnerable, and Mycroft needed him to keep two eyes on Sherlock…

But then there was the other side of that coin.

The side that said Mycroft wasn’t the kind of man to invite any old person to his flat. The kind of man who wouldn’t let just anyone comfort him when his brother was lying near-dead in hospital.

He was the kind of man who had no personal photographs in his flat though. It was his own flat right? Greg couldn’t believe he’d be invited to a dummy flat. What a stupid thought. And now he couldn’t un-think it. He rolled over. And now he was thinking about the sex again. The sex they’d had, the sex he wanted to have. With Mycroft.

The man who was manipulating him. Maybe. According to Sherlock. How much did ‘according to Sherlock’ mean anyway? Well, actually, Sherlock was a genius so it probably meant quite a lot and oh God this was a bloody nightmare.

Greg groaned and buried his face in the pillow. 

 

* * *

 

Greg got up earlier than normal, driving straight over to Sherlock’s flat. He knocked at first but got no response so let himself in. Sherlock was exactly where he’d left him. On his laptop.

A syringe was on the floor by the chair leg. Greg’s shoulders slumped as he looked at him.

“I’ve found your murderer,” Sherlock said. “We will go there now.”

“No we won’t,” Greg replied, resigned. “You didn’t tell me where all your stash was.”

“Why would I do that?”

“Because I’m trying to help you.”

“And I’m going to find you a murderer. Now come on.” Sherlock got up, picking his coat up from the corner of the bedroom door. Greg looked at him.

“Sherlock, are you high right now?” Greg walked over to him, planting his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders. “Look at me. Right now.” Sherlock looked at him with a steely expression. His eyes weren’t contracted. Greg pressed his lips together. “Fine,” he muttered. “Fine, tell me where I’m going.”

“Where we’re going,” Sherlock corrected. “I don’t intend to miss out on the fun.”

“What fun?”

“We’re going to find another body, Inspector,” Sherlock said gleefully.

“How do you know that?”

“Because yesterday morning a man tried to sell me heroin containing rat poison.” Greg stared at him. “Well, I did say I had been undercover,” Sherlock said.

“You could have got yourself killed,” Greg muttered.

“But I didn’t.” Sherlock opened the front door.

Greg glared at him, holding his ground. Sherlock raised his eyebrows at him. “Oh bloody hell,” Greg growled, walking through the door and down the stairs. Sherlock followed him to the car, texting. “Where am I going?” Greg asked, pulling away from the curb.

“Just keep driving straight, I’ll tell you when to turn.”

Greg turned the radio on, watching Sherlock out of the corner of his eye and making sure he didn’t open his glove compartment. “What did you do with the needle anyway?” Greg asked. “The one with the rat poison.”

“I took it to Bart’s,” Sherlock said. “Evidence.”

Greg frowned. Couldn’t argue with that, he supposed. He kept driving as Sherlock typed furiously on his phone. Eventually Sherlock told him to turn right, right and then second left and Greg followed his instructions.

“Park here,” Sherlock said. “We’ll walk the rest of the way.”

“Sherlock, do I need back-up for this? Because I don’t want to just walk into a murderer’s lair if I can help it.”

“Oh, don’t worry, he won’t be there.”

“How do you know?” Sherlock began to get out of the car. “No. Stop!” To Greg’s surprise, the younger man did stop. He gradually turned his head to look Greg square in the eye. “I need you to explain what’s going on before you get us both killed,” Greg told him.

Sherlock sighed. “I met a drug dealer two weeks ago. He had only been doing it for nine months, had never taken drugs himself and he wore a cross around his neck. I found his religious beliefs to be contradictory to his drug dealing so I decided to pay closer attention to him. He was very consistent with his patterns. He stood in the same places every day, moving away at near enough the same time every day. He had a very loyal customer base. And one day, I asked him about his operation. He told me he had lost some of his customers recently. He said one had been found hanging by his wrists on a sign.”

“Shit,” Greg muttered.

“He still attended church. In fact, he attended a church, a mosque and a mandir.”

Greg frowned. “Hedging his bets a bit, isn’t he?”

“He referred to himself as Kerry Kingsmore, but his accent did not suggest he had any Irish roots. It was more Germanic in origin. I, of course, decided to track him.”

“And?”

“And he is your murderer.”

“But… what? I don’t get it.”

“He wishes to cleanse the world of dealers and addicts. He sold me the poisoned heroin.”

“How did you know it was poisoned?”

“Because I tested it,” Sherlock said. “I know where we will find the body.” Greg pressed his lips together. He really needed to call his team. “He will be at his usual location,” Sherlock said, getting out of the car. “Trust me.”

Greg snorted. “Like I trusted you not to get high again, you mean?” Greg got out of the car anyway and locked it, following Sherlock to a house three streets away.

Sherlock looked around before kneeling down to start picking the lock. “Oh God,” Greg groaned, covering his eyes. He definitely could not be caught here, allowing this crazy man to break and enter. “Let’s go back and get a warrant.”

“It’s done,” Sherlock said as he pushed the door open. Greg winced and crept in, glancing back behind him. They closed the door and Greg looked around. The walls were graced by religious memorabilia of every sort. There was even some sort of tribute to Satanism. Greg followed Sherlock up the stairs, and there, there was the body.

Just as Sherlock told him there would be. Greg rubbed his face. “Oh, crap,” he muttered.

The man was lying on the floor, one wrist chained to a hook in the wall. Greg closed his eyes. He was done with this case. He needed it to be over. Sherlock pointed to the corner of the room. “There is your rat poison. And I am sure you will find plenty of evidence in this house. Including newspaper cuttings of the first rat run bodies whose method he so faithfully recreated.”

Greg put his hands in his pockets, considering. “Right. You and me are leaving. And then I need to figure out a way of legitimately finding this body and arresting that bloke.” He and Sherlock walked out of the house and Greg checked the door was securely locked again before they wandered back to to car. Greg turned to look at him. “You want to be there for the arrest?” he asked.

“No,” Sherlock said.

Greg glanced at him. “You alright?” he asked. “You haven’t called me an idiot or made me feel stupid all morning.” Sherlock stayed quiet. “Sherlock?”

“What?” he asked gruffly.

“It’s just two weeks, alright, mate? Two weeks of getting clean and I’ll find you another case.”

“I don’t need your cases,” Sherlock muttered.

Greg pursed his lips. He had expected Sherlock to be thrilled at solving the case. Thrilled he’d done it by himself. (Wow, Sherlock really had solved it by himself, that was a bit of a blow to Greg’s ego). But instead he seemed… well, depressed. Maybe he was just craving drugs, Greg thought. Or just coming down. Or maybe it was a bit more than that.

Mycroft had said Sherlock’s mind was at times deafening. Was that how he felt now? Deafened? He pulled out his phone and looked at Mycroft’s name in his contact book. Out of loyalty to Sherlock, he didn’t send him a message to say he was concerned.

Greg surveyed the street. “You said the guy has a routine. When exactly do you think he’ll go back to the house?”

“At 4pm. That’s when he will start to move the body.”

Greg nodded. When that man got to his house, his team were already going to be there, out of sight. They were going to pick him up, charge him and enjoy every minute of his court hearings.

“Right, get in the car,” Greg said, unlocking it. “I’m taking you back to yours.”


	15. Let Me Treat You For Your Disease

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Queenoftheuniverse, Iridescentkiss and KingTaran .

_March, 2006_

Greg sat at his desk contemplating the rat run case.

After telling the team he’d received an anonymous tip for a body in a house and an exact time the man would be arriving there they all looked disbelieving at him. After more than a year working on the rat run case and now they had an anonymous call which had all the answers? Unlikely.

And at any rate, the men who had done the killings were in prison, the case was closed, how could there be another rat run killer when they’d tied it up in a pretty bow on one evening of absolute celebration.

Sally didn’t say a word during the meeting. If looks could kill, Greg would have been dead a hundred times over from the power of her gaze at him. She knew it was Sherlock, Greg realised. She really was the smartest one on the team. Far superior to Carter, and Edmund Bullock couldn’t hold a torch up to her.

Greg hated keeping things back. He wouldn’t do it again, he decided. Once this case was over, he needed to find a new way of working and a new way of keeping himself and his team totally on the straight and narrow.

They all trusted him. They’d invested a lot into his leadership, and while Greg had been unsure to start with, they’d all rallied around and made him believe he could do this. And now he owed it to them to be upfront.

They planned the arrest for later that day.

 

* * *

 

Greg watched from his car as the man walked towards the house. He was tall, with well-built arms and strong shoulders. Strong enough, then, to hoist those poor victims up to signs and drainage pipes. His face was sallow. But if Greg had walked past him in the street, he would have paid him no mind.

The man unlocked the door, glancing around before walking in.

Carter’s voice came from the walkie-talkie. “Me and Donovan are going to knock now, sir.”

“Got it,” Greg replied, calling Edmund and Brockhurst. “Get round the back, I don’t think he’d be able to get past Donovan and Carter, but let’s not make it easy for him to try.”

Greg watched as Sally and Carter approached the door, both in full police uniform. His heart pounded in his chest as he watched, saw the momentary shock on the man’s face as he saw the uniform before he tried to turn on the charm. There was never any charming Sally.

Greg saw it before Sally and Carter did. “He’s got a weapon. Knife, left pocket!” Greg radioed through and he saw Sally’s head incline just an inch as she heard him down the earpiece. Greg swore, biting his lip. Sally and Carter were doing their best to ease their way into the house. But no killer was going to let them in without a fight.

“I want back up for Edmund and Brockhurst around the back. Lewis, Adams, get ready to support Donovan and Carter,” Greg said. He rubbed his face. Shit. They shouldn’t have done it this way. Should have just got a warrant…

But then the man made a fatal error. He reached for the weapon. Carter gave him just enough time to brandish it before pushing him face first into the wall, pulling his arm tight enough to make him drop the knife.

Sally brushed past him, and stormed into the house. Greg got out of the car. Carter was cuffing the man, arresting him on suspicion of threatening an officer. Hopefully that was the least of this man’s worries.

Sally walked down the stairs and nodded at Greg. “We got it, sir. Body’s still there.”

Greg let out a sigh of relief, as he looked the man square in the eye. “I’m arresting you on suspicion of murder.” As he read the man his rights he saw Sally’s half-smile. So, she’d forgiven him then. Nothing like arresting a serial killer to please a police officer.

 

* * *

 

The man had been in the interrogation room for half an hour when Greg walked into the room beside it, where Sally was listening to the live feed of the interview. “How’s it going?” he asked.

“He confessed straight away,” she said. “Carter’s just going through the procedures now. Why aren’t you doing this? I thought you’d be right on getting all the credit for his confession.”

Greg shrugged. “Not really me who solved it,” he said. Sally rolled her eyes.

“I don’t know what you did or how he figured this out, sir, but you can’t trust him.”

“Trust who?”

“Sherlock Holmes,” Sally said. “I mean, how the hell did he figure all this out?”

“I wish I knew.”

Sally frowned. “This killer was sick. He said they didn’t deserve to live because they were fucking up their lives. I preferred it when it was just drug gangs killing each other off.” Sally looked at him. “You don’t need Sherlock Holmes, sir. You’d have figured it out. We all would have. So. Stop cutting us out.”

“Yeah,” Greg nodded. “I will. But. I’m not sure we’re done with Sherlock yet.”

Sally rolled her eyes. “Whatever you say. You’re the boss."

“Yep,” Greg agreed. “That I most definitely am. And because I’m the boss, this is all on me. It’s always on me.”

 

* * *

 

Greg gripped the bottle of champagne, whistling as he walked to Sherlock’s flat. He let himself in, not expecting him to answer even if he did knock.

Greg strolled in, and stood by the window looking out was the recognisable suit of Mycroft Holmes. He had an umbrella in one hand. Greg frowned. It wasn’t even raining outside. “Where’s Sherlock?” Greg asked, looking around.

“In bed,” Mycroft replied, not turning to face him. “I’m afraid he has been taking heroin.”

Greg winced, wishing in that moment that he’d told him. He sat down on Sherlock’s sofa. Mycroft turned around, but Greg couldn’t meet his eyes. “It was stupid,” Greg muttered. “I wasn’t thinking.”

“That much is obvious,” Mycroft replied. “But it’s done now and we will of course need to consider getting him to a rehabilitation facility.”

Greg looked up at him. “We?”

“Oh yes,” Mycroft said, turning to look back out of the window. “I am not cleaning your mess up by myself. And Sherlock is far more likely to respond to you than me. You be the carrot and and I will be the stick in his recovery.”

Greg stared at his knees. “He was doing so well.”

“On the contrary. I imagine he has been using for much of the past year. He has just become an expert in hiding it.”

“No. We’ve been testing his urine for months…”

“And you believe Sherlock would not find another way to submit samples?” Mycroft asked, his voice sharp. He turned around again and leaned intimidatingly against that long umbrella. Greg felt himself shudder internally under the gaze of that icy stare. “Even the dreadful cough he had in September could have been a symptom of drug use. I can’t believe I missed it.”

“I missed it too,” Greg murmured. But he imagined for Mycroft, missing something felt much worse. “So what’s the plan?”

“Sherlock will be going through withdrawal. I’m afraid I have a trip tomorrow. I would request you stay with him.” Greg nodded. He felt like it was his duty to do that anyway. “After which time,” Mycroft continued. “We will wait and see. You will offer him cold cases if he is clean in two weeks time. I will offer him rehab if he is not. Carrot. And stick. We are more likely to be successful if we do so together. He likes and trusts you, and he does not like or trust me. But you are clearly too easy on him.”

“He seemed to be sorting it.”

“You haven’t seen him at his very worst. I suppose I know better than to believe he can completely shake off these ridiculous impulses of his.”

“What happened before?” Greg asked.

Mycroft turned away again. Greg was about to say sorry he asked, when Mycroft began to speak. “I was 25 when I was given a job offer I simply could not refuse. It was in the United States. Sherlock was just about to begin university, and it seemed an appropriate time to take the offer. I was there for two years. A most unfortunate incident occurred while I was there, and it blinded me to Sherlock’s problems. When I finally realised, he was in hospital.”

Greg bit his lip. “I’m sorry.”

“It was a wonder he ever completed his exams,” Mycroft said. “Three years later, he almost died. It was then I decided to pay closer attention to my brother’s affairs.” Mycroft looked at Greg. “You understand, of course, that I do not blame you?”

Greg frowned. “Don’t you? ‘Cause I do.”

“No. This is nothing new. It was to be expected. The nature of the case you were working on did not help.”

Greg rubbed his face. “Shit, Mycroft-”

“Please don’t apologise. I do not for a second believe you wanted this to happen. You did all you could. Now you just have to do more.”

“I’m still sorry-”

“Oh will you both just shut up!” Sherlock shouted from his room.

Greg rubbed his face. He felt like he’d brought this upon himself. He looked up to see Mycroft watching him. His face seemed to soften for a second, before he was back to the stiff upper lip look Greg had seen him wear through most of their conversations.

“I have to go,” Mycroft said. “If you need anything, my assistant will be on hand to answer my phone.”

Greg nodded. “Sure, no problem.”

Mycroft nodded his head at him. Greg swallowed. God, he felt like he’d let them both down. Mycroft walked towards him and Greg looked up, his fingers curling in the sofa’s cushion. “I’ll be in touch,” Mycroft said softly, before walking to the door. “Oh,” he added. Greg turned over the back of the sofa to look at him. “Write this down.” Greg frowned and got his phone out. “If you get bored, Sherlock’s laptop password is C21H23NO5.”

Greg looked at it. “What’s that?”

“It’s the chemical formula for heroin.” And with that Mycroft left Greg alone in the flat.

The first thing Greg did was retrieve Sherlock’s laptop from the desk. He typed in the password, minimising Sherlock’s strange data table which popped up on the screen. There had been a list of perfumes on the left-hand side. He clearly wasn’t done with his blog.

He typed ‘heroin withdrawal’ into Google. He brought up the first link and read it.

 

_Within hours after the drug effects have decreased, the addict’s body begins to crave more. If he does not get another fix, he will begin to experience withdrawal. Withdrawal includes the extreme physical and mental symptoms which are experienced if the body is not supplied again with the next dose of heroin. Withdrawal symptoms include restlessness, aches and pains in the bones, diarrhoea, vomiting and severe discomfort._

  
He immediately wished Mycroft had given him more information. He didn’t know when the last time Sherlock had injected himself was.

Then he frowned. Remembered. Sherlock on the case earlier, depressed, quiet. It made sense if he’d come back and dosed himself. And how many times since then? Greg read some more articles. Water seemed key. Changes of clothes. Lots of blankets for when he sweat through them. He made a list of the drugs he would need to pick up the next day and walked into the bathroom.

He found painkillers in the cupboard above the sink along with other medication Greg supposed could be useful. He went into Sherlock’s bedroom with a glass of water in hand and some books under his arm. He was lying on his back, an arm over his eyes and the blanket down over his legs. His brow was sweaty.

“You alright?” Greg asked.

“Go away,” Sherlock mumbled.

“Not going to happen,” Greg said.

Sherlock muttered something under his breath and Greg chose to ignore it. He set the water down and sat down on the floor, his back resting against Sherlock’s bed.

“Inspector, what exactly do you think you’re doing?”

“Making sure you don’t die,” Greg said. “It’s fine. I’ve brought a book.”

“I’m not going to die, Inspector, don’t be an idiot.”

“Glad to hear I’ve got the pleasure of your company for even longer then.” Greg pulled a packet of Ibuprofen from his pocket. “This is for when the pain starts. Now, I found a list of stuff I need to get you from the chemist, but they’re not open this late so I’ll nip out first thing tomorrow.”

Sherlock grunted in response, turning over in the bed so his back was to Greg.

Greg opened one of the books he’d taken from Sherlock’s desk. He had doubted from the beginning that he would understand any of Sherlock’s books, but he knew he couldn’t sit by doing nothing. Even if his mind began to wonder, it was better than sitting in dead silence.

He looked at the cover. Principles of Kinesic Interview and Interrogation by Stan B. Walters. Greg pursed his lips as he opened the cover. He’d just assumed Sherlock was capable of reading people naturally and maybe there was a lot innate ability to his skills. But it seemed he had been working harder than that. He wasn’t just using something which came naturally, maybe he actually cared about working Greg’s cases.

Greg started reading.

When he woke up, uncomfortable and cold two hours later, he was aware of Sherlock’s shaky breathing.

“Y’alright, mate?” Greg asked hoarsely, rolling his shoulders. He sat up on his knees, leaning onto the bed.

“I need drugs,” Sherlock muttered. He had pushed the blanket down to his feet, with his arms wrapped around himself.

“Drink some water,” Greg said, standing up and taking a seat on the edge of the bed. He felt a spring dig into him and wondered how Sherlock possibly slept on this mattress. “You need to be hydrated.” To his surprise, Sherlock shuffled up a bit and let Greg hand him the drink. His hand shook, and Greg held the end of the glass to support it as Sherlock took several small sips. “Alright?” Greg questioned.

“Hurts,” Sherlock murmured.

“I know. If you need anything, just ask. I’m going to go and sleep on your sofa, but shout if you need me.”

“Why?” Sherlock asked him.

Greg looked at him, the sweat across his forehead, his tightened jaw. “Because you’re an alright bloke,” he replied.

He got up and wandered into the living room, leaving the bedroom door ajar. He used his jacket as a cover, pulling a Union Flag cushion under his head. He set alarms on his phone in hour-and-a-half intervals, ensuring he would wake up and could check on the other man regularly.

Over the course of the night, Greg spent several hours on the sofa and several in Sherlock’s room, providing him with new blankets, opening and closing windows, giving him painkillers and forcing him to have some water.

He was in considerable pain, but Greg knew there was very little they could do but get through it.

On one occasion, at 4.21am, Greg walked in to see Sherlock lying on his back, that all-too-familiar steeple under his chin with his hands. “How’s your head?” Greg asked before he knew the question was about to come out. Sherlock gave him a sidewards glance.

“I never expressed having a headache,” Sherlock began, “so therefore you’re asking me something else.” He studied Greg. “You’re wondering what’s going through my mind right now.”

Greg took a seat on the bottom of the bed. “How do you do that?” he asked. “Work out everything about someone?”

“There are words surrounding you, Inspector. I take cues from your clothing, from your hands, from the way you hold yourself.”

“Doesn’t that… well, get a bit much?” Greg asked, remembering the conversation he had with Mycroft.

“Mycroft certainly thought so,” Sherlock said. “He claims he takes a look at a person and immediately splits the data into categories. The things he needs to know and remember about them. The things he can use in the future. The things he can completely discard. And then the things that are so obvious he will remember them every single time he meets or talks to that person anyway. What my brother doesn’t realise is everything is important. Everything is potentially useful.”

Greg looked thoughtful. “That’s a bit weird.”

“Do you want to know what Mycroft thought when he saw you, Detective Inspector?”

“I’m not sure I do, actually-” Greg began, but Sherlock ignored him.

“Mycroft of course knew straight away about the poor state of your marriage. It was obvious from the beginning and so was one of those things he could instantly recall every time he came across you. Your forgiving and amiable nature was something he knew he could use in the future, because it makes you far too easy to manipulate and he may need that. Indeed, he is doing it all the time. He knew he needed to remember things about your childhood, because he realises how those experience have shaped you. Understand your childhood and it’s pretty easy to recognise what sort of man you are. I expect he has discarded much of the information of your cases, since they aren’t of much use to him.”

Greg leaned back against the wall. “So, how’d you know all this?”

“Because I know my brother.”

“No, I mean, about me.”

“The state of your marriage was clear from the beginning. You work long hours, by choice, often staying at work when you could be going home. You moved your possessions into your office a week before you met me, however, the picture from your wedding was still inside it. You hadn’t felt it important enough to display prominently on your desk. In fact, you never displayed it on your desk at all. I’ve explained how I knew about your childhood already. You must be forgiving, for you had no reason to continue to work with me.”

Greg pressed his lips together, trying to fight a grin. “Is that your way of apologising?” Sherlock took a sip of water in response. “Right. Come on. Educate me. Let’s say I’ve dragged a suspect into the Yard. What do I need to be looking for?”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “You’re serious?”

“Yeah, I’m serious. The Great Sherlock Holmes isn’t with me every second of the day deducing every criminal I bring in. So go on. Give me some tips.”

Sherlock let out a dramatic sigh, but the way he leaned forward told Greg everything he needed to know about how keen he was to share his magnificent insights.

“You need to trust your intuition. It’s far easier if you just accept I know rather than get me to explain it. You know two plus two equals four, yet, you would have trouble to explain why that’s the case.”

Greg nodded. “Yeah, alright, that’s true.”

“You see but you do not observe, Inspector. Note the details others miss. The smallest details are often the most important. Take for instance, Mycroft. Imagine you see him in your office with a stain on his collar. What sort of stain is it? Food? But have you ever seen him with a stain before? In fact, based on your past experiences, you would deduce him to be neat and careful. Then logically, he was in a hurry. Is he on time for every meeting he has? Of course he is. So what happened? That is where you fill in the gap. Perhaps he overslept, so he was tired or living in another timezone, in which case, has he been travelling? This is Mycroft, he’s always travelling. There would be indications of where he had been but I think that’s beyond your… skill set.”

Greg frowned but didn’t reply.

“Look at what is happening around you,” Sherlock continued. “Observe. What is different? And then deduce. What does that imply? Always change the deduction to fit the facts. How many books were on my desk?”

“What?” Greg asked, surprised by the sudden question.

“On my desk. There were seven. You saw, when you picked them up. But you did not observe, Lestrade.”

Greg watched Sherlock. “Thank you. That was interesting.” Sherlock shrugged one shoulder. Greg got up. “I’ll be back in an hour, okay?”

Sherlock sunk back onto the bed, curling his knees up.

Greg smiled to himself as he walked back to the sofa, thinking of how that conversation seemed to have taken Sherlock’s mind off what was happening.

At 7am, feeling as though he was sleep-walking, Greg left the flat in search of a chemist. Sherlock had finally fallen asleep and he wanted to keep that the case for as long as possible.

He picked up a number of items for Sherlock as well as finally finding a place to get rid of the syringes. He bought things he hoped would help Sherlock get through the next few days. He dropped them off on the way to his flat, where he changed quickly and went to work.

 

* * *

 

He wasn’t at his best all day and he knew it. Sally was picking up on things a lot quicker, and while she was good, Greg liked to think he was better. He was tired and distracted worrying about Sherlock, which wasn’t a brilliant combination and definitely not conducive to work.

On his way out he grabbed files for a case they had been working on. He got to Sherlock’s flat at 7.36pm, where he found the man lying on his sofa. He seemed better than he had been in the morning at any rate. He was surprised when Molly Hooper walked out of the bathroom. She smiled at him. “Hi, Inspector,” she said. “Sherlock was struggling so I brought him something a bit stronger. It seems to have helped.”

Greg nodded. “What sort of something?”

“A better painkiller. And some noodles.”

Greg laughed. “You actually managed to get him to eat?”

Molly beamed and Sherlock said “would you please both stop talking about me as though I’m not here?”

Greg sat down at the desk. “I brought you a case. Interested?”

Sherlock studied him. He huffed. “No. You solved it already.”

“Now come on-” Greg started but Sherlock gave him an icy glare. “Alright, fine, we solved it. I thought it might take your mind off it.”

“You know what case you could bring me, Lestrade? The Kirkcudbright case.”

Greg rolled his eyes. “I can’t believe you’re still going on about that.”

“I looked it up on the internet. You’re an idiot. How did you let that get to court?”

Greg took a long breath and Molly smiled sympathetically at him. “Alright fine,” Greg muttered. “You get Kirkcudbright. If you stay clean. For a month.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Fine.”

Greg looked at Molly. “So, how are you settling into Bart’s?” he asked her.

“It’s really good. I’ve been involved in a new project. Well, Sherlock and I both have except…” she frowned.

“I haven’t been there,” Sherlock explained. “I’ve been undercover,” he told Molly.

Greg rolled his eyes. “Right. Sherlock. I need to go home and get some proper sleep and food. If you need anything, text me. Or text Molly or Mycroft, but for God’s sake, don’t just decide you need drugs.” Greg looked at Sherlock. “Are you listening to me or not?”

“Unfortunately I had no choice but to listen,” Sherlock muttered.

“Text me, Sherlock. I’m serious. I’ll come by after work tomorrow.”

 

* * *

 

Greg spent the next few days between work and Sherlock’s flat. He seemed to be on the mend, although he was the most quiet and withdrawn Greg had ever seen him. He was hardly eating, which was another big concern, but Greg did manage to force some Chinese takeaway on him.

The worry was still there, in the back of his head. He was pretty sure Sherlock was about to go back to drugs. And if he didn’t get through the next few days, it was going to be worse than before. Because he’d stopped bothering to hide it.

But then Andrew Hanley happened.

Andrew Hanley was 10 years old, the child of two prominent City bankers, and at just after 3am on the Sunday morning he had gone missing.

The case was high-profile from the start, on the front of all the Monday papers. His face with pale blond hair and a big smile accompanied by a picture of his parents. The nature of the case meant it was all hands on deck.

No one was sleeping much. Greg was lucky if he had three or four hours on each of the five days Andrew Hanley was missing. Twice he took a nap in the staff room and he wasn’t the only one as everyone went on searches, swept the family’s house twice and analysed hours of CCTV footage.

A day into the case, Greg called Mycroft and warned him he would be unable to look after Sherlock as much as he wanted to. Mycroft immediately understood, and Greg hated how reasonable he was being considering Sherlock had started on drugs again on his watch.

Greg was asleep at his desk when he received the call Andrew Hanley had been found. He had run away when he thought his parents were angry at him and been kidnapped. He was traumatised, but thankfully unharmed.

Greg practically crawled into his flat, turning the kettle on and fought to keep his eyes open. He had the next three days off, and he didn’t remember being more glad of time off in his career. He was used to the long hours, the long weeks. But everyone knew an exhausted policeman was a poor policeman.

Sleep. So much sleep was needed.

He stripped off his clothes, leaving them in a trail leading from his kitchen to his bedroom. He shut the mid-day sun out of his room and was almost instantly asleep.

He woke 12 hours later, feeling uncoordinated and realising he had completely mucked his sleep patterns up.

He reached for his phone but found it had run out of battery. He plugged it in. Immediately three missed calls from Mycroft Holmes, and one from an unknown number popped up. Moments later, a text came through.

 

MESSAGE Mycroft Holmes  
12.04am: Please discard the missed  
phone calls. I understand you must  
be tired. Will you be available  
for a meeting at my home at 8am?  
M

 

Greg groaned and typed back a quick response.

 

MESSAGE  
2.31am: Sorry, was sleeping. Yep,  
no problem.

 

Greg got up, pulling his dressing gown on. He decided to eat some toast, sitting down in the dark with terrible early-hours-of-the-morning television. He rested his head on the back of the sofa, closing his eyes.

He ate his toast, read some news stories relating to the Andrew Hanley case and decided to try and get some more sleep.

He lay in bed in his boxers, his hand on his chest. He thought back to the last few days, assessing whether they’d tackled the case in the right way, what he would do the same or differently if a similar circumstance occurred again. This was why he drove Caroline crazy, he realised. He never switched off.

Three days off, he thought. Three days off where he wouldn’t give a single thought to cases, murders or kidnappings. He frowned. So what was he going to think about? On days off he used to catch up on sleep, watch some TV, take Caroline out for a meal and read a book. But for the last year, his mind had been full of work near-constantly. Work and his failing marriage.

But that ship had sailed now. There was no marriage. He looked at the space on the bed, wondered if he missed her. He didn’t. Not really. But that didn’t mean there wasn’t a void there. He was a tactile person. He didn’t often act on it, but he liked to feel someone’s hand on his arm, or shoulder, or knee. Thigh. He didn’t know what it was about feeling a hand on his thigh…

His hand drifted down to his hip bone, the idea of being touched by someone else, someone male, someone Mycroft-like… oh bloody hell. He felt the desire in the pit of his stomach, the thought of Mycroft’s hand on his hip, on his thighs.

He let his fingers trace the waistband of his boxers, imagining the clipped voice in his ear saying ‘yes, let me watch you’.

He imagined Mycroft sat on the side of the bed, his analytical eyes looking over his body, watching Greg touch himself, touch himself for him. Greg lifted his hips up off the bed as his hand closed around his cock. He didn’t remember the last time he’d had time to himself to do this, to just lie there and feel. Usually he was in bed to collapse and then sleep. But he took his time. Trying to remember the feeling of Mycroft’s hand around him rather than his own, trying to copy the incredible things Mycroft had done with his thumb, the way he squeezed, released and squeezed again, each change in tension just driving Greg crazy.

And God, that man was driving him crazy. Controlling, in charge… there was something so unbelievably hot being bossed about by Mycroft and he didn’t want to think about him anymore, but he was all he could think about as he started to quicken the pace of his hand, heard himself gasp and dig his heels into the bed and bite his lip with the only words in his head ‘Mycroft, Mycroft, Mycroft, yes’.

He breathed hard, tipping his head back onto the pillow as he came, the man’s name on his lips. And God, he wanted - needed - more. He wanted more Mycroft, more naked Mycroft. He hadn’t been this sexually attracted to anyone in a long time and he’d managed to choose the one person he couldn’t get a handle on.

He was good at reading people. Not like Sherlock and Mycroft were, they were in another league. But he knew what made people tick, he could work out their motives, the things that made them do the things they did. Family, passion, friends, a lover, hatred. He could work that out. But Mycroft? Mycroft was an enigma. And somehow that just made him sexier. 


	16. Walking On A Wire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 100,000 words was reached today. In celebration - have more fic!  
> For MisplacedLonelyHeartsAd - for coming to the party now and I hope the next chapter is to your liking.  
> DamnMyLegILoveSociopaths, Velma, MoonRiver, Iridescentkiss, Queenoftheuniverse, novels and KingTaran - you are all absolute superstars.  
> Thank you to all those who are subscribing and reading. Whenever I look at the number I shake my head in bewilderment that even one person is reading this! So many thanks. And now, fic time.

_April, 2006_

Greg decided to walk to Mycroft’s home in the morning. He was glad he wasn’t at work so he could avoid all the usual April Fool jokes. The guard at the door checked his name on a list, and nodded at him to enter the building. Greg was expecting to be accompanied up to Mycroft’s floor, but instead he walked up the stairs by himself. He didn’t feel completely awake, but he knocked firmly on the door.

The butler answered it. This was the second time Greg had met him but he didn’t get the impression the man liked him very much. He wasn’t sure why. He was led to Mycroft’s lounge and he walked in, finding Mycroft sat in his chair beside the fire and Sherlock sprawled out on the sofa in his dressing gown.

“Would you like a cup of coffee?” Mycroft asked as he walked in.

“Er, yeah, sure,” Greg agreed. He watched as Mycroft stood up and walked into the kitchen. Greg took a seat. “You alright?” he asked Sherlock. Sherlock shrugged, looking at the wall behind Greg’s head. Greg narrowed his eyes. “You’re high,” he muttered, looking at him. “Jesus Christ. What the hell are you doing to yourself you absolute idiot.” Sherlock looked genuinely surprised at him. “Yeah. Idiot. You heard me, Sherlock, you’re an idiot.”

He looked up as Mycroft appeared in the kitchen doorway, an amused smile on his face. Greg couldn’t help himself. He looked between Sherlock’s stunned expression and Mycroft’s smile and he began to laugh. He covered his face at the absurdity of what he’d just said, calling the smartest (or second smartest) person he’d ever met an idiot. And he’d meant it.

And Mycroft was stood in the doorway laughing too, while one glance at Sherlock’s angry face just had Greg doubling up even more, holding his stomach as he tried to stop the intense pain as his laughter just got harder. “It’s not even funny,” Greg managed to say through the laughter.

“I disagree,” Mycroft grinned. Greg laughed harder, covering his eyes when he saw the disgust on Sherlock’s face.

“For God’s sake will the two of you shut up?” Sherlock said loudly, putting his hands over his ears.

Mycroft flashed Greg a big smile and went back into the kitchen. Greg rubbed his face and coughed. “Sorry, mate, but seriously, your face.” He grinned at Sherlock. Sherlock made a frustrated sound in the back of his throat, pulling a sheet up over his head. Mycroft walked back in and handed the mug to Greg. “Cheers,” he said, taking it. He chuckled for a moment before looking at Mycroft. “So. What am I doing here?”

Mycroft sat back down and nodded his head towards his brother. “We’re here to discuss what to do about Sherlock.”

“Do I even need to be here for this?” Sherlock asked from under the cover. “Why can’t the two of you just leave me alone?”

“Because the two of us happen to care about your well-being, however distasteful you find the idea,” Mycroft said, lifting his cup and sipping from it. “Now, Sherlock, we made the case perfectly clear to you that if you could not keep off the heroin for two weeks we would send you to rehab. I was hoping we could have a discussion and avoid that.” Greg raised his eyebrows at the use of ‘we’ but didn’t say anything.

“I hate you both,” Sherlock said.

“And I despise you when you’re high,” Mycroft replied bitterly.

Sherlock lowered the sheet and stared at Mycroft angrily from across the room. Mycroft stared back, folding his arms. Greg looked between the two brothers, sipping his coffee. He frowned, not sure of why he was even there. He shuffled awkwardly in his seat, watching the silent exchange going on between them both.

“You both disgust me,” Sherlock finally muttered. “Just send me to rehab. I know you’d prefer it if I’m away, it gives you more time to do nasty things with Lestrade.”

Greg felt his cheeks warm and he looked down at his mug.

“I do not wish to send you to rehab if I don’t have to,” Mycroft said. “I don’t expect it will be particularly beneficial. But if you give me no other choice then I will send you.”

“You can’t make me do anything, Mycroft,” Sherlock said bitterly.

“Do not presume anything about what I can and cannot do, brother mine.”

Greg glanced at Mycroft, recalling the conversation about the stick and the carrot. “I’ll give you the Kirkcudbright case,” Greg finally said. “If you get clean. Properly clean. You can have all the cases you want.”

Sherlock looked at him. “I don’t care about your cases.”

Greg almost rolled his eyes, but he reeled it in. “Yes you do,” Greg said. “Don’t bother lying, Sherlock, I’ve known you a year now and I know you need to keep your mind active. What was it you called yourself? A consulting detective? Well, if you want to do that then here’s your chance. If you’re drug-free.”

Greg sat back in his seat. “It’s an interesting case, the Kirkcudbright one, Sherlock. You said you read about it in the papers but you don’t know the half of it. The security system missing only three minutes of tape. All of the staff accounted for, no one seen arriving or leaving the premises. Three minutes in which Hadrian Kirkcudbright was slashed in the throat.”

Sherlock tapped his fingers against the side of the seat. “He has a lot of enemies,” he murmured as though trying to justify how boring the case was. But Greg knew he was hooked.

“Loads,” Greg agreed. “Pretty nasty way to kill someone. Big case, Sherlock. He was a powerful man. And it’s a very tricky case. I wish I had the brains to figure it out, but we got it wrong before.”

Greg wasn’t sure if the flattery technique was going to be of any use, but appealing to Sherlock’s ego was a tried and tested method. And actually, Sherlock’s expression had begun to change as he started to think. Greg exchanged brief looks with Mycroft, who had a faint smile on the corner of his lips. Sherlock probably knew he was being manipulated. But even if he did, he was going along with it.

“What do I need to do?” Sherlock finally asked.

“Go to rehab,” Greg said. Mycroft opened his mouth in protest, but Greg cut him off. “Your brother doesn’t want you to go. He thinks you’ll just resent us both. But I don’t think either of us are going to be able to give you the time you need to get clean. I know it’ll drive you mad. I know you’re going to hate every bloody second of it. But for every two days you’re there, I will send you a cold case. And in two weeks time, I will give you everything you need for the Kirkcudbright case.”

Sherlock sat up, looking between his brother and Greg. Greg glanced over at Mycroft. His face was expressionless, but his fingers were pressing tightly into the leather chair. Greg wondered if he’d overstepped the line, but he turned back to Sherlock. Shagging Mycroft was the least of his worries. He didn’t know when he’d decided he cared about Sherlock, but he did and he wanted him drug-free. And he would use any amount of bribery to achieve it.

And then he watched Sherlock’s expression change. The way he slumped into the chair, defeated. Mycroft stood up. “I will make the arrangements,” he said, standing and walking into his office. He didn’t look at Greg. Greg pressed his lips together. Crap. Now he’d made Mycroft mad at him.

Sherlock looked at Greg. “Those thoughts you are having about my brother are incredibly disturbing,” he said.

Greg rolled his eyes. “Well, if you’re in rehab you won’t have to see it or think about it, will you?”

“A cold case every two days?” Sherlock asked.

“Yep,” Greg agreed. “I promise.”

Mycroft walked back into the living room. “A car will be here within the hour, Sherlock,” he said.

Sherlock huffed but didn’t argue.

“I’ll leave you to it,” Greg said, standing up. “Just call me or text me if you need anything.”

Mycroft nodded at him. “Thank you,” he murmured.

“I’ll text in a couple of days about the cold cases.”

“Do, Detective Inspector,” Mycroft said, his lips pressed tightly together.

Greg looked at him, the cool look on his face. And so they really were back to that. From hot to cold in half an hour. He really did not have a read on that man at all. Greg nodded. “Great. Well, see you, Mycroft. Talk to you in a few days, Sherlock.” He walked out of the door and left Crusader House feeling entirely uncomfortable about what had just taken place.

But bloody hell, if Mycroft didn’t want him involved in the discussion, he shouldn’t have invited him.

He went home and did some housework. He watched some TV. As he turned off the bedroom light at 11.56pm, he was surprised when a text appeared on his phone.

 

MESSAGES Mycroft Holmes  
11.56pm: You were perfect with my  
brother this afternoon. I cannot  
possibly convey how grateful I am.  
M

 

Greg stared at it. Grateful? Perfect? But he was certain Mycroft was mad at him. He quickly wrote out a reply.

 

MESSAGES  
11.58pm: Really? I thought I’d pissed  
you off! Cheers though. Talk soon?

 

MESSAGES Mycroft Holmes  
12.00am: Not at all. I just needed  
Sherlock to believe you had. He is  
far more likely to do things  
willingly if he believes I am unhappy.  
M

 

Greg tilted his head as he read Mycroft’s explanation. And there it was. The reason Mycroft was a genius and he wasn’t.

 

MESSAGES  
12.03am: That’s bloody genius.  
Goodnight.

 

MESSAGES Mycroft Holmes  
12.04am: And to you, Greg. MH.

 

Greg was still smiling when he fell asleep. 

 

* * *

 

It was the last day of Greg’s days off. He had been relaxed, going to the gym and playing some five-a-side football. He had enjoyed a couple of beers at the pub with Carter and Bullock, and they had even managed to avoid talking about work for a whole 15 minutes.

And so when he was dishing up his chili and heard his phone ringing with the name ‘Mycroft Holmes’ appearing on the screen, he was surprised at how little thought he’d given either of the Holmes brothers. “Hey, mate,” Greg said as he answered it, turning the hob off.

There was a pause before Mycroft said “Good evening.” Greg grinned. Apparently calling him ‘mate’ had thrown him off. Oh, that was an amazing feeling every single time.

“You alright?” Greg asked, spooning his food onto a plate.

“Yes, very well and yourself?”

“Yeah, good thanks. I’ve just been relaxing.”

“I wondered if you would be able to come around tomorrow morning and bring some cold cases for me to send to Sherlock. I understand he is causing a bit of a fuss at the rehabilitation clinic and he would benefit from something to distract him.”

Greg laughed. “Sounds like Sherlock. I’ll find the most difficult ones I can.”

“I am very grateful,” Mycroft said.

Greg grinned to himself, leaning against the fridge. “So, what time do you want me tomorrow?”

“Is 7am acceptable? I have a meeting at 8.30am, so I am leaving home later than I would normally.”

“Yeah, 7 is fine. You only live a quick drive from the Yard so that’s fine.”

“Thank you,” Mycroft said.

“See you tomorrow, Mycroft.”

“I look forward to it,” Mycroft said, hanging up the phone before Greg had a chance to respond. He let out a long, slow breath. Mycroft is looking forward to it. That wasn’t just something you say about a quick meeting about Sherlock was it? He didn’t want to read into it. He didn’t want to analyse a situation which didn’t exist. But even so…

Greg finished dishing up his chili and sat down in front of the television to enjoy it, contentment settling in his chest.

 

* * *

 

The next morning, Greg drove to work first, flicking through some files and photo-copying them. He already had a fair idea of what he was going to give Sherlock. Some of them were from before his time at the Yard, while others were ones retired colleagues had mentioned they would love to have solved.

He left at 6.45am, driving to Mycroft’s home. This time, the doorman did not consult his name on the list, merely said “good morning, Detective Inspector,” and let him straight in. Greg found the whole thing bizarre, and wondered whether the man on the door was for Mycroft’s benefit or whether he just came with the building.

He was let straight through to the living room, and Mycroft was sat eating some crumpets on the sofa when Greg walked in. “They smell amazing,” Greg said.

Mycroft smiled. “Would you like one?”

“No, I’m full, but thanks.” Greg put the files down on the table. He looked at Mycroft. He was wearing his usual smart trousers, but no shoes. His white shirt had one button undone, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Greg swallowed. He had never seen Mycroft so… under-dressed before. “There’s six there,” he finally managed to say. “I think the top one is the hardest, it’s probably worth sending that one to him first. How is he?” Greg sat down on the other side of the sofa.

“Driving the staff around the bend,” Mycroft said, his eyes sparkling with amusement. “Hardly surprising.”

Greg laughed. “I’d expect nothing else.”

“It is a small weight off my mind,” Mycroft said. “I am very grateful, Greg.”

“Should I feel manipulated?” Greg asked before he had time to think the question through. He winced. “Sorry, I don’t-”

“Sherlock told you I found you the flat so I could keep an eye on you,” Mycroft murmured, more of a statement than a question. Greg nodded. “I can assure you, that is not the case. Certainly when I invited you here, my aim was for Sherlock to go into rehabilitation. And yes, I was you would react the way you did. But it was never my intention to manipulate you.”

Greg nodded. “I’m sorry I asked.”

“Please don’t be,” Mycroft said, setting his plate down on the table. “You have no reason to believe otherwise. As I may have mentioned in the past, much of our business could easily be conducted on the phone. I could have sent a… how did you describe them? An underling? I could have sent an ‘underling’ to your office to pick up these files. But I enjoy your company.”

Greg looked at him. He looked down at his forearms. Naked forearms. He must be going mad if forearms were suddenly peaking his arousal. “Cheers,” Greg said with a smile. He looked at his watch. “Right.” Greg stood up. “I’ve gotta get back to work. Sherlock’s going to be alright.”

Mycroft smiled slightly, also standing. “Yes.”

Without a thought, Greg reached out and touched Mycroft’s forearm, the soft skin on the underside of it. Mycroft turned his head, looking down at Greg’s hand, and then looked back at his face. Mycroft lifted one eyebrow.

Greg slowly moved his hand up to Mycroft’s shoulder, squeezed it, and cupped the side of his neck. Greg’s fingers must have been cold, because the skin felt so warm, but Mycroft didn’t seem to react to it. Instead his lips parted in response, and Greg felt him leaning into the touch.

Greg intentionally licked his own lips and he saw Mycroft’s eyes flick down to his mouth and back to Greg’s eyes. Greg stepped towards him, hesitated for just a moment, and leaned forward.

He stopped just as his lips were centimetres away from Mycroft’s. He felt Mycroft’s breath against his cheek. Warm, smelt like expensive coffee. Closing his eyes Greg brushed his lips against Mycroft’s just a fraction, just so lightly, barely a whisper of a kiss, and Mycroft’s lips parted against his.

He kissed his bottom lip as tenderly as he could manage. Mycroft’s hand moved to touch his chest. At first Greg paused, thinking he was being pushed away. But Mycroft’s fingers curled around his shirt collar.

Greg pressed his mouth slightly harder against Mycroft’s, both lips slowly moving against each other. A feeling of absolute desire washed over him, and he wished he just had more time. Greg turned his head to kiss the corner of those lips.

“I’ve got to get to work,” Greg whispered, pulling back. He moved his hand from Mycroft’s neck and onto his jaw, caressing Mycroft’s bottom lip with this thumb. “Hold that thought.” With a smile more confident than he felt, Greg let go and walked towards the door, trying to move as surely as he could with his heart feeling like it would beat out of his chest. He didn’t know where that had come from. But Mycroft didn’t seem to be unhappy.

He touched the door handle. “When will I see you?” Mycroft asked. Greg stopped moving, smiling a little to himself.

Greg turned his head to look back at him. “Whenever you want.”

“This evening?”

Sooner than Greg was expecting. He smiled. “See you then.”

Greg left, feeling like he’d got the upper hand over a Holmes for once.

 

* * *

 

Greg walked into Crusader House that evening full of apprehension. He didn’t know where his confidence that morning had come from, but now it was later he felt no such belief he’d done the right thing. He’d spent the entire day thinking about Mycroft’s lips. It had been very distracting. And not a very exciting day either, which hadn’t helped keep his mind on work and not Mycroft’s body.

The butler let Greg through and he knocked on the door. Mycroft opened it wearing a fully turned out suit this time. Greg was almost disappointed but he admired the way it showed off the structure of his body. Greg walked through, taking a seat on the sofa. “Can I get you a drink?” Mycroft asked.

“Whatever you’re having.” Mycroft smiled and walked through to the kitchen. Greg heard the tap being poured and then the low rumble of the kettle. Mycroft stood in the kitchen’s doorway. “Heard from Sherlock?” Greg asked.

“Must we talk about my brother?” Mycroft replied. Greg opened his mouth and shut it again, surprised by his tone. “Honestly, Greg. You and I both know you didn’t come here to talk about Sherlock.”

The man stalked towards him. He looked predatory. Greg held his breath. He couldn’t believe how aroused he was already. Like a bloody teenager. Mycroft smirked. Greg heard the kettle stop. He glanced at the kitchen doorway and then back at Mycroft. The man was within inches of him. “Move forward,” Mycroft instructed, his voice low.

Greg tilted his head to the side before doing as instructed, moving until his feet were firmly planted on the floor. Your move, he thought, looking up at the man. He narrowed his eyes.

Mycroft’s head was tilted up, eyes looking down at him. Greg leaned back into the chair, folding his arms across his chest. Mycroft licked his lips. He took a few steps towards Greg, stopped for one moment, and dropped to his knees in one fluid movement.

Greg caught his breath. Mycroft rested his hands on each of Greg’s knees, pushing his legs apart so he could kneel properly between them. Their eyes hadn’t left the other’s.

Mycroft’s hands moved firmly up Greg’s thighs, his fingers rubbing along the inside of them. Greg couldn’t help the low groan that escaped his lips, his face flushing at the sound.

Mycroft smiled in response, his hands travelling up and down Greg’s thighs. He reached for Greg’s belt and Greg looked down, watching long fingers unfasten it. Greg swallowed, felt the leather sliding out of the loops.

He’d gone down on his knees himself, Greg thought, his brain catching up with what his eyes were seeing. He definitely hadn’t expected him to do that. Mycroft Holmes was on his knees in front of him because he wanted to suck him off. Well, he hoped that was the plan. Greg let out a gasp as he watched.

Mycroft unfastened the button on his jeans before dragging down the zip, and the subtle vibration and friction against his cock made Greg groan. Mycroft looked up at Greg’s face. He may have been the one on the floor, but confidence in his eyes left no one unsure about who was in command. “Take them off,” he said.

Greg breathed deeply, anchoring his back against the sofa as he hooked his thumbs in his trousers and pulled them down. As he’d moved them over his hips and out from under his arse, Mycroft took over, pulling them down his thighs and calves. He made no effort to take them off completely.

Mycroft nuzzled the inside of his thigh. Full of unspoken promises. He kissed and sucked the skin, finding a spot near the underside of Greg’s knee that left him giving out a strangled moan.

Mycroft’s hands were all over his legs, fingers tracing patterns over his skin. He bit down on the inside of his thigh, Greg gasped, and he sucked the spot hard. He couldn’t wait to see the mark left there.

Greg palmed his own erection, and Mycroft grabbed his wrist and pinned it to the sofa. “Fuck, I can’t…” Greg murmured. He tilted his head back, staring up at the ceiling, but quickly changed his mind. He had to watch. He’d fantasised about this, he couldn’t lie. But this was better. And he wasn’t going to miss a moment of it.

“You too,” Mycroft said, a warm smile on his face.

“Me too what?” Greg asked, his voice hoarse.

“I have spent the day imagining a situation such as this. It is far more glorious than I expected.”

“You look good there,” Greg replied, grinning, not caring that he’d just had his mind read. Mycroft chuckled lightly, his fingers tightening around Greg’s wrist.

The thumb on his other hand rubbed against the leg of Greg’s black cotton boxers. Greg’s cock twitched, and they both saw it.

“Remove those, Greg,” Mycroft said. He’d never received an instruction like it, Greg thought. Quite unused to taking orders anymore - he was used to giving them nowadays - every word just aroused him more. Mycroft let go of his wrist.

Greg lifted his hips to pull them down and stared at the wall behind Mycroft. He felt Mycroft’s intense gaze on his cock, assessing the situation before him. Greg swallowed and glanced at his Mycroft’s hands. Greg curled his fingers into the cushion.

Mycroft wrapped his hand around Greg’s prick and Greg instinctively lifted his hips. “God please,” he groaned as Mycroft began to stroke him. He watched Mycroft’s face, those eyes lifting to his. Mycroft sat up higher on his knees, wetting his lips with his tongue. Greg stared at his mouth, his legs trembling.

Mycroft moved his mouth towards Greg’s cock slowly, his lips forming an ‘o’ around him, but not touching. Without warning, his tongue swiped against the head. Greg shuddered, his hand moving to grip Mycroft’s shoulder.

Mycroft’s lips finally wrapped around him, a delicious suction. Greg bit his bottom lip, willing himself to stay still. Mycroft sucked on the head, his tongue occasionally flicking, and Greg marvelled at how quickly he seemed to find the right spots. Like he instinctively knew every nerve ending to drive Greg wild. And oh God, Yes, it was working.

He slowly lowered his mouth, and Greg made such a delighted moan he was almost embarrassed it had come from his mouth. Mycroft, it seemed, had no such reservations as he began to move his head, sucking on Greg’s cock and moving his hand against the base.

Greg surveyed the scene. Mycroft there on his knees, hollowed cheeks, looking up at him. It was gloriously obscene.

His tongue pressed against the underside of Greg’s cock and he shuddered. Mycroft did it again, taking Greg deeper into his mouth.

Greg glanced at the ceiling for a second, his breath quickening. “Myc, I-” he began, whispering, but the man just sucked harder. Greg’s toes curled as he came, the world bright white and blissful, his hand clinging to Mycroft’s shoulder, the other gripping the sofa.

Mycroft’s mouth stayed closed around him, his grip softening as Greg relaxed, slumping into the chair.

Mycroft slowly lifted his head, and Greg opened his eyes, taking in his deep red lips, wet with saliva. Fuck, but he was sexy. Mycroft opened his mouth, stretching his jaw. “Was that to your-” Mycroft started to say, but Greg leaned forward, grabbing his tie and kissing him hard.

Mycroft made a noise of protest, but melted into the kiss as Greg sucked his bottom lip before pushing his tongue into his mouth. Mycroft’s tongue met his and Greg tasted himself and couldn’t help but feel that was almost as erotic as what had just taken place. Almost.

“Get on my lap,” Greg muttered breathlessly as he broke the kiss.

Mycroft looked alarmed. “Greg, I really don’t think… it’s not particularly… becoming.” Greg grinned. He didn’t think he’d ever heard Mycroft stammer before. “And besides I’m not as young as-”

“Shut up and straddle me,” Greg grinned.

He held out his arm, letting Mycroft use it for leverage as he stood up. Greg leaned forward and rested his hands on his hips. He rubbed his thumbs against them before reaching out to unfasten Mycroft’s belt.

“It really isn’t necessary,” Mycroft said.

“It’s what I spent the the last month fantasising about,” Greg said, looking up at him. He rubbed his hand against the front of Mycroft’s trousers and the man trembled. “Please. Let me touch you.”

Mycroft nodded and Greg made swift work of unfastening his trousers and pushing them down. Mycroft stepped out of them and Greg sat back on the sofa, letting Mycroft straddle his lap, his legs either side of his. Greg gazed at him for a second before pulling him down by his tie into another heated kiss.

He pushed down Mycroft’s boxers, wrapping his hand around his cock. The head was wet, and Greg didn’t hold back, moving his hand roughly and rubbing his thumb against the head. Mycroft’s body shook against his, breaking the kiss as he gasped against Greg’s cheek.

Greg licked his neck, the faint taste of salt there. Mycroft rocked his hips into Greg’s hand and Greg heard him make a quiet inhale of breath as he came, spilling his load over Greg’s hand.

Not quite as clean as it would have been in my mouth, Greg thought, and the very idea of that made him wish he’d done it. Next time. There had to be a next time.

Mycroft’s head fell onto Greg’s shoulder and Greg wrapped a supportive arm around him, his hand dropping from Mycroft’s prick. Greg closed his eyes, stroking Mycroft’s back through his suit. Less clothes next time too, he thought.

Mycroft turned his head to brush his lips against Greg’s jaw before pulling his boxers up and moving onto the sofa. “Shall we have that coffee now?” he asked.

“Sounds good,” Greg said, standing up and pulling his own underwear and trousers back up. He glanced at Mycroft who was still staring at him through half-lidded eyes. Greg grinned. “I’ll go do it,” he said. Mycroft opened his mouth to protest, but Greg turned and walked to the kitchen before he could say anything.

He found the kettle and switched it on and then began searching for mugs. He heard footsteps behind him but kept hunting through cupboards. He finally found what he was searching for and saw Mycroft move to take the milk out of the fridge. “This is all most troubling,” Mycroft said. “I am rarely a slave to my desires.”

Greg smiled and poured the water into the mugs. “Might be good for you. Are you okay?” Greg asked, opening a drawer to find a spoon. He frowned at the drawer full of tin foil and elastic bands and finally found the drawer he was looking for. Greg turned around to look at him. “You want me to go?”

Mycroft shook his head. “Stay for a coffee.” Greg took a few moments to study him. He looked a bit like how he had at the hospital after Sherlock’s rat poison escapade. Unsure and affected.

“I’ll ring Sherlock in the morning,” Greg said. “If he’s not talking to you, maybe he’ll talk to me.”

“Thank you,” Mycroft whispered. Greg nodded at him and found the teaspoons, stirring their drinks. Mycroft picked up one of the mugs and walked back through to the living room. Greg took the other and followed him. Mycroft was sat in the chair nearest the fire. Greg took a place on the sofa.

“I believe I am due to receive a promotion at work,” Mycroft said, looking into the distance.

“Congratulations,” Greg said.

“Thank you. I had considered turning it down.”

Greg frowned. “Why?”

“Sherlock. I truly believed we had gotten beyond his ridiculous addiction. And now I fear he needs me more than ever.” Sherlock. It was always Sherlock. How many other good things had Mycroft given up because of his infuriating brother?

“He’s not on his own, you know?” Greg asked.

“Yes,” Mycroft said, not taking his eyes off him. “He has you. Which is the reason I fully intend to accept the offer, when I receive it.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Greg asked.

“I didn’t want you to think our physical arrangement was my way of thanking you. I would hate for you to think I regarded sex as some sort of payment for taking care of my brother.” A ‘physical arrangement’? Is that what they had? Where had the arrangement part come in?

Greg smiled. “I never thought that.”

Mycroft watched him. “No. No, you didn’t.”

Greg took a sip of his drink, burning his mouth. Mycroft appeared bemused, but said nothing. They sat in companionable silence as they drank. Greg had some questions, but he decided he would leave it. Enjoy the sex, if it happened again, without questioning or asking. Finally, Greg stood. “I should go. I’ve got work tomorrow.”

Mycroft smiled at him. “Sleep well, Greg.”

Greg smiled. “And you.” Although he wanted more than anything to lower his head and kiss Mycroft’s smile, he decided not to push it. Instead he flashed him the biggest and best attempt at a charming grin he could muster before walking to the door. He left Crusader House feeling happier than he had for months.

 


	17. Some Things Burn Bright

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took a while. Bank holidays meant we had three days to produce a newspaper rather than five, so life has been a bit stressful. Nonetheless, here we are. The chapter before the 8,000 mammoth you'll receive in a couple of days.  
> As ever, those who commented keep me going. Heartfelt thank yous go to: novels, MoonRiver, KingTaran, MisplacedLonelyHeartsAd and Colliemom.

_April, 2006_

Not having Sherlock around was a weight off Greg’s mind. That wasn’t to say he wasn’t a bit worried. But knowing his drug problem was someone else’s problem was a huge help.

Sherlock spent the next five days texting him occasionally, asking questions about the cases or calling the investigating officer on a cold case an idiot. It wasn’t exactly the Holmes brother Greg had been wanting to hear from. But he appreciated that Sherlock was still making contact with him nonetheless.

Greg text Mycroft once to see if wanted to come over for a drink, but the man never text back. Greg wasn’t altogether surprised. They’d had sex twice, sure, but it definitely didn’t mean there was anything going on and they certainly weren’t about to start seeing each other with the sole purpose of sex. And even less likely to start seeing each other with the sole purpose of testing each other to see if a relationship was beginning to build.

So Greg let it be.

A week after Sherlock went to rehab, Greg’s Assistant Commander knocked and walked into his office. Greg was half-way through his coffee, going over some evidence for a third time before he was called in as a witness in court the following day.

“Alright, boss?” Greg asked. “Do you want a coffee?”

“No thanks.” The man slid into a chair opposite Greg, looking around the office. “It’s very impersonal in here, Lestrade.”

“Impersonal?” Greg looked around.

“Yeah, you should put some pictures up or something.”

Greg chose to ignore the comment. “How I can help?”

“How’s Carter doing?”

Greg frowned. “Carter?”

“Yeah.”

“He’s great. He’s a good cop. He’s chilled out a bit in the last 12 months I guess. Why?”

“DI Lewis is moving to Hampshire. And we need a replacement, and we thought Carter would fit the bill.”

Greg raised his eyebrows. Carter a DI and no longer on his team? They’d got along well lately, but he knew he was still harbouring some resentment for Greg’s promotion. “Carter? Yeah. Definitely. He’s been a brilliant Sergeant for me.”

“And who would you like to promote? Bullock has been here the longest of your PCs.”

“No,” Greg said quickly.

“I’m sorry?”

“No, not Bullock. He’s not the best on my team.”

“Who is?”

“It’s Sally Donovan. And she’s better than Carter.”

The Commander paused, considering. “She’s not been here as long.”

“But she’s the best,” Greg said.

“Alright. Well, you know better than me. I’ll interview Carter tomorrow, and you can interview Donovan at the same time. Say 2pm?”

“Yeah, alright. Look if you’re taking Carter off my team, do I get to bring in another PC?”

The Commander’s lips pressed together as he said: “Budgets are tight, Lestrade.”

Greg rolled his eyes. “You’re kidding me? Have you seen that lot out there? You know how they get through the day? Coffee.”

“Them and every officer around the country.”

“This is ridiculous,” Greg muttered.

“It’s life, Lestrade.”

“You know we’ve got the bloody newspapers breathing down our necks judging our crime rate and we can’t take any more officers on either?”

“When we promoted you, you assured us you could improve the crime rate in your area.”

Greg folded his arms across his chest. “And I have,” he said through clenched teeth.

“Yeah. You have. So keep doing it.”

“With less officers?”

“Yep. You haven’t got a choice.”

“And tell me how, exactly, I can do a better job than my predecessor with less manpower?”

The Assistant Commander lifted his head. “You’re a smart man, Detective Inspector. You’ll figure it out.”

Greg shook his head. “Morale is at a serious low.”

“I know. So find a way to lift it. Interview is at 2pm tomorrow. Enjoy giving her the job. It’s a good feeling.”

Greg tipped his head back as he watched the man leave the room. He let out a long breath. This job. This actual fucking job. He thought about Carter. About him starting with a new team of his own, with his own targets to reach. And then thought he had something Carter didn’t. He had Sherlock Holmes.

He needed to get Sherlock more involved somehow. He tapped his fingers on the desk, frowning. He needed to do it in such a way that his superiors never questioned it. He knew his team were on side in that they liked and trusted him, but they didn’t like or trust Sherlock. And that was always going to be a problem when the man didn’t even bother to try.

Greg sighed. This was going to bite him on the arse one of these days. But when he thought of the crimes they could solve… well, it was worth it. They could get their figures up, help improve the Met and if the Government saw what a good job they were doing then maybe they’d have more money for pay rises or for new cops…

 

* * *

 

Sally was frowning at him from across the desk. Greg had spent the whole day toying with the different ways he could tell her she was promoted. He wanted to spring it on her. He wanted to bring her in for a casual chat and let it slip. Instead, they were sat staring at each other in some sort of strange silent stand-off.

Sally picked up her mug and sipped from it. She glanced around the room, wrinkling her nose. “So are we done?” she asked.

“No.” Greg frowned. “Do you want to be a Sergeant?” he asked.

She eyed him curiously. “Yeah, sure.”

“Well, basically, Carter’s being promoted to a DI. And if you want to be Sergeant, then his job’s on offer.”

Sally sat back in the chair. Greg couldn’t help but smile as she asked “Really?”

“Yeah, really?”

“What about Bullock?”

“What about him?”

“He’s been here longer than me.”

Greg pulled a face, trying to look diplomatic. “Yeah but Bullock’s…”

“Pretty useless,” Sally grinned.

Greg chuckled. “I wasn’t going to put it quite like that.”

“Yeah, but we both know you were thinking it.”

Greg laughed and rolled his eyes. “Keep that to yourself,” he said. “Anyway. You’ll be starting as Sergeant next Monday. Congratulations.”

Sally grinned and stood up, holding her hand out. Greg stood too and shook it. “We’ll go to the pub next week and celebrate or something,” he said. She nodded at him, still grinning before leaving the room. Greg sat back down at his desk, so glad he was given the opportunity to give her the job himself. It was a great feeling after all. Amazing.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock was back in London a week later. Greg knew because he was inundated with texts waking him up on the Monday morning. At rehab, Sherlock had only been allowed access to his phone at certain times in the day. Now he had it back and he was obviously ensuring he wasn’t missing out on using his phone contract to the fullest.

 

MESSAGES Sherlock Holmes  
2.04am: Have you got a case? What  
can I do? SH

 

MESSAGES Sherlock Holmes  
4.15am: DI Evans was an idiot. It  
was the brother. So obvious. Case  
solved. SH

 

MESSAGES: Sherlock Holmes  
4.32am: Why aren’t you replying? SH

 

MESSAGES: Sherlock Holmes  
4.35am: Are you sleeping? You’re not  
with Mycroft are you? SH

 

MESSAGES: Sherlock Holmes  
4.56am: What are you doing? It is  
your job to stop me going back on  
heroin. The staff said so. SH

 

MESSAGES: Sherlock Holmes  
5.03am: Text me

 

MESSAGES Sherlock Holmes  
5.04am: Urgent

 

MESSAGES Sherlock Holmes  
5.04am: Idiot

 

Greg groaned and text him back through half-lidded eyes.

 

MESSAGES  
5.06am: I’m sleeping! Go to bed!

 

MESSAGES Sherlock Holmes  
5.07am: I’m bored!

 

MESSAGES  
5.09am: I’ve got 20 minutes until  
I have to get up for work. Fuck off  
and let me have sleep.

 

MESSAGES Sherlock Holmes  
5.09am: Kirkcudbright.

 

MESSAGES Sherlock Holmes  
5.10am: Kirkcudbright.

 

MESSAGES Sherlock Holmes  
5.11am: Kirkcudbright.

 

MESSAGES  
5.12am: Bloody hell. See you at the  
Yard at 6.

 

MESSAGES Sherlock Holmes  
5.12am: Kirkcudbright.

 

MESSAGES Sherlock Holmes  
5.13am: Excellent. See you then.

 

Greg groaned into his pillow before dragging himself out of bed. He was generally a morning person, but not when he knew he had to contend with Sherlock first thing.

He had a quick shower, ate a slice of toast while reading BBC News. He walked to work, and soon found he was actually looking forward to seeing the young Holmes brother despite the early start. Sherlock was stood by the entrance when Greg arrived and he flashed him a grin. Sherlock glared back in response. Greg laughed. “What’s up now?”

“You’re late.”

“I’m actually early since I don’t start work for another hour. Come on, follow me.”

Sherlock didn’t say a word as Greg led him past the front desk and through to his office. Sherlock took a seat and turned down the tea Greg offered to make him. “So how was rehab?” Greg asked.

“Unbearably dull,” Sherlock replied, looking around the office. Deducing. He put the heap of files down on Greg’s desk. “I have included post-it notes with the murderers’ names in each case and explanation on how I solved it.”

Greg nodded appreciatively. “Cheers.”

“I believe you owe me the Kirkcudbright case?”

Greg sighed and stood up, walking over to his filing cabinet. He took out the relevant case files and walked out with them to the photocopier. He spent the next 15 minutes photocopying the documents before handing them to Sherlock. Sherlock proceeded to look through them. “I’ll have that tea now,” he said.

Greg pressed his lips together in annoyance but stood up to pour him a drink nonetheless.

“I need to see the crime scene,” Sherlock said.

“It’s not a crime scene anymore, Sherlock, the murder happened 18 or more months ago.”

“Yes, but I need to see the house. These pictures are useless. Who took these?”

“Professional crime scene photographer,” Greg told him.

“Find a new one,” Sherlock muttered. “You can’t even see where all the doors or CCTV cameras are in these, it’s pathetic.” Greg set his tea down and looked over his shoulder.

“What are you thinking?” he asked.

“Not sure yet. I need more data. I need to see the house.”

Greg frowned. “That involves letting you meet actual human beings. Are you sure you’re ready for that?” Sherlock glared at him. “I’m not sure I’m ready for that, Sherlock.”

“I just need to look around. The cameras are pivotal, I’m sure of it.”

Greg nodded. “Alright. I’ll call Mrs Kirkcudbright and see if we can look around later. But you have to be on your best behaviour, Sherlock. I’m serious.”

Sherlock looked up at him with wide eyes as though to say ‘I’ll be good’. But Greg knew him too well to believe that look. But of course, as always, he was willing to give him another chance. He wondered if that was why Sherlock tolerated him. Because he gave him a chance.

Sherlock kept looking through the files so Greg left him to it. He opened up his emails, browsed some news sites on the web and looked through what had happened the day before. It was generally quite a quiet month for crime. The weather wasn’t so hot that windows were left open inviting break-ins. The heat wasn’t such that it was driving potential murderers mad and left them killing some poor unsuspecting person.

Shoplifting was definitely down. Greg supposed the shops weren’t quite as busy as they were in the run up to Christmas, and not as busy as when the sun really shone and people flocked to the high streets.

The files and pictures kept Sherlock quiet for an hour, giving Greg’s team enough time to get to the Yard, spot him and avoid Greg’s office like the two of them had rabies. Greg didn’t mind too much. He had plenty to occupy himself with.

At 8.01am, Greg left Sherlock to it. Edmund Bullock was sat with his back to Greg. “Morning, Ed,” Greg said, walking over.

Edmund looked at him, raised his eyebrows and turned back to his computer. Ah. So he had heard about Donovan’s promotion then. Greg felt a bit bad for him, but it wasn’t like there were official interviews. He was told to pick who he wanted and who he wanted was Sally. Everyone on the team knew she was the best. Sally was stood with Carter, who was positively beaming. He was obviously showing Sally the ropes, explaining the things he did for Greg to help him out. Those things which were now Sally’s responsibility, and Greg was convinced she would do better than Carter had done.

Sally turned and flashed him a big smile. Greg wandered over. “How’s it going?” he asked.

“It’s good, sir,” Sally said. “Are we hitting the pub tonight?”

“That’s the plan,” Greg said. “Congratulations, Carter.” The two men shook hands, looking at each other for a while.

“I’m glad you got the job as DI,” Carter suddenly said. “I thought you were the wrong man for the job. But you’ve proved us all wrong and I reckon I’ll do a better job because of your help.”

Greg stared at him. “That’s… thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Is that the freak in your office?” Sally asked, putting a hand on her hip.

“It’s Sherlock,” Greg said irritably. “And he’s going to be helping us out on any cases which come up and he’s interested in. So if the two of you want to try and be a bit more civil, I’d be grateful.”

Sally huffed. “He’s going to be around more?” she asked, frowning.

“If he wants to be, then, yeah. We’re not getting a new PC to replace you, Sally. Budgets won’t allow it. So we’re down on manpower, down on brainpower and we can get Sherlock Holmes for free. So yeah. If he wants to put his brilliant brain to use then I’ll let him. And so will you.”

Sally stared at him, challengingly. “You’ve given this a lot of thought,” she muttered.

“You’re right,” Greg said. “I have.” Sally glared at him and Greg walked back to his office.

Sherlock had spread the house pictures out on the floor, with photos overlapping to build up as much of a 360 degree image as he was able to make. Greg looked down at them. There, in a chair, in the centre of one of the images, was Hadrian Kirkcudbright, bent over his desk. His throat had been slit.

Greg knelt down beside Sherlock, looking at the pictures. “I haven’t laid these out like this before,” Greg said. “It definitely gives you another impression. Like the blood spatter.”

Sherlock’s eyes glanced across the picture. “His neck was cut by someone stood behind him and slightly to his left,” he said. “They were left handed.”

Greg nodded. “We said that too.”

“The brother you charged was left handed.”

“He was,” Greg agreed. “The jury acquitted him, rightly in the end.”

“It made sense,” Sherlock said. “In a way. Hadrian Kirkcudbright was bleeding him for thousands.”

“Yeah, there was an obvious motive.”

Sherlock sat back on his heels. They both looked up from the floor as Sally walked into the room. She hadn’t been on the team when Greg began work on the Kirkcudbright case. She and Sherlock stared at each other for a few moments before she too joined them on the floor. To Greg’s surprise, Sherlock allowed it. Maybe he was changed and improved after all…

“Left handed killer,” she said.

“Yep,” Sherlock agreed.

“Someone he trusted.”

“Obvious,” Sherlock said.

“There’s a metal detector,” Sally muttered.

“What?” Sherlock asked, studying the picture.

“By the door,” Sally said. “This is his personal study by the looks of it but… there’s a metal detector. A hidden one, in the door frame there.” She pointed to the picture and Greg and Sherlock both looked closer. Greg raised his eyebrows. How had they all missed that? “So,” Sally murmured. “Was it switched on when the killer walked in? And if so, the weapon must have been in the room already.”

Greg looked at both Sally and Sherlock. They were both looking intently at the pictures.

“We need to see the crime scene,” Sally said. “These pictures are useless. Who took them? Don’t tell me it was Adams. It was Adams, wasn’t it?”

“It was,” Greg said and Sally rolled her eyes. Greg stood up. “I guess I should call Mrs Kirkcudbright.” He sat down at his desk and began flicking through his contact book. He felt a tension in his chest ease away as he saw Sally and Sherlock sat on the floor together in silence. He was waiting for the sniping to begin again.

But after quickly talking to Mrs Kirkcudbright, during which she told him he was welcome to take a look, they hadn’t said a word to each other. No words were better than them killing each other, Greg supposed.

“We can go over at 2,” Greg said. “Sherlock, can we start looking through these cold cases you say you’ve solved together please?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I left you post-it notes.”

“Well, I want to hear the explanations from you.”

Sherlock stood up and moved back to the chair at Greg’s desk. Sally shrugged and stepped over the pictures. “See you both at half one to go the Kirkcudbright Estate then,” she said.

 

* * *

 

Apprehensive was an understatement when he drove them to the Kirkcudbright Estate. It was tucked away in a road full of beautiful expensive houses, with lush gardens which were out of place in the centre of London.

Sally was sat in a backseat, much to her disgust, and Sherlock was muttering about how much he despised Greg’s music and how he knew real music and if he ever got his violin back…

“You play the violin?” Greg asked, pulling into the driveway.

“Yes. Mycroft took it,” Sherlock said bitterly.

“He took your violin?”

“Yes, apparently it wouldn’t have been safe where I used to live.”

“He had a point,” Greg said. Sherlock shot him a look and Greg fell quiet. Just another thing he’d have to mention to Mycroft at some point.

He pulled up outside the Kirkcudbright residence. It looked just as flawless as it had before the murder, with a perfectly mowed lawn. They all got out of the car and walked to the front door.

Greg used the knocker. The housekeeper answered and he showed her his badge. She nodded at him and let them into the house. “This is Sergeant Sally Donovan and… Sherlock Holmes,” he said. “He’s consulting on the case.”

The housekeeper nodded. “Mrs Kirkcudbright is in the living room. Would you like to see her?” she asked.

“Yeah, if that’s alright.” Greg followed the housekeeper through the house to the room Mrs Kirkcudbright was sat near the window reading a book.

“Oh, Detective Inspector,” she murmured, standing up. She shook Greg’s hand and turned to look at Sally. “It was just a terrible time, but Greg was very helpful, very kind. What is it you’re looking for?”

“I don’t know,” Greg said. “We just want to have another look around your husband’s office if that’s okay? Some of our pictures from the day are lacking some details, and I want to see what’s missing.”

Mrs Kirkcudbright nodded. “Of course, look wherever you need to. If anything can help… any room you need, Inspector. Just do whatever you like.”

Greg nodded. “Thank you, Mrs Kirkcudbright. We will be as quick as we can. Come on, Sherlock.”

Greg led the way up the stairs. He saw how Sherlock was looking around, analysing. “She had motive,” Sherlock murmured. “He used to beat her.”

Sally exchange looks with Greg and whispered. “I think you made that up.”

Greg rolled his eyes. “Shh, you two.” He opened the door to Hadrian Kirkcudbright’s old office. He looked at the edges of the door. “Yeah, there’s still a metal detector here. He was obviously worried about people coming in to kill him.”

“Mycroft has one,” Sherlock said. “On the door to his office. If someone walks in with something which could be the size of a gun or a knife, it sets off a light on his desk.”

Greg frowned. “Mycroft has a metal detector for his office?”

“I told you he’s melodramatic,” Sherlock said, walking into the room. He began to look around. “It hasn’t been touched much.” He rubbed his fingers over a shelf. “Dusted, cleaned and hoovered though.”

Greg walked around to the desk. “I don’t know what this is going to achieve. I don’t know what’s going to be here that I didn’t see the first time.”

“You look but you don’t observe,” Sherlock murmured distractedly as he peered out of the window. “How many cameras?”

Greg looked around. “Two. One on each side of the desk.”

Sally looked up at them circling to work out how much of the room they would cover. “Not many places to hide,” she said. “Maybe to the left of this bookcase…” She tried to squeeze in between the case and the wall. “No, the space is too small.”

“The victim knew his killer,” Sherlock said. “He let him in, trusted him. He wasn’t concerned if the metal detector picked anything up.”

Greg watched as Sherlock paced around the room, obviously measuring out distances. He was shaking his head, standing behind the desk Kirkcudbright was killed at, assessing distances and heights.

“How long were the cameras out?” Sally asked.

“Three minutes,” Greg said. “But all of the staff are accounted for either side of the power outage.”

“All of the power or just the cameras?” Sherlock enquired.

“All of it in the house,” Greg said.

“And every room in the house has CCTV?”

“Not the bathrooms or the bedrooms, but there is a camera on each of those doors to see who goes in and out. Everyone is accounted for.”

Sally pulled a face. “Who puts CCTV in their entire house? That’s crazy.”

“Someone who’s ridiculously worried about security,” Greg replied.

“I’m done here,” Sherlock said. “I need to see the CCTV now.”

Sally rolled her eyes and looked out of the window. “Inspector?” she asked, turning to look at Greg.

“I’m ready whenever,” he said, looking between them. “I’ve been here before, it’s nothing new to me.”

Sherlock had already turned and walked out of the room and Greg shrugged at her. Sally huffed before storming out behind him and Greg followed, exasperated at the both of them. He thought they’d been making a change for the better but they both switched so easily. It drove him up the wall.

He drove them back to the Yard with a stony silence, only the music from his radio filling the void.

After he got back, he left Sherlock with his computer, rifling through the house’s CCTV footage. He sat with Donovan going through the cold cases Sherlock had brought in and the two of them started re-examining the evidence with Sherlock’s new ideas in mind.

They planned two arrests on two separate cases.

Three hours later and Sherlock was still sat at Greg’s desk. Greg took a seat on the other side and watched him for a few moments. “How you doing?” he asked.

Sherlock ignored him.

“Can’t be easy. Being off the drugs you’ve been on for such a long time.” No response. “Look, if you’re tempted, you know you can call me anytime, I’ll keep my phone on for you.” No indication Sherlock had even heard him. Greg bit the inside of his cheek. “I was thinking of stopping smoking. What d’you reckon? For every day you’re off the drugs, I’ll quit smoking?” Sherlock typed into Greg’s keyboard. “I mean, I know it’s not exactly the same thing. But I’ve been smoking since I was 18, you’ve been doing drugs since you were – what - 18? So we’ll do it together.”

Sherlock looked up at him. “Shut up, Lestrade, your vapid dialogue is hurting my brain.”

Greg smiled at him. “So I’ll quit too then, yeah?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Do whatever you want.”

“I’ve had my last cigarette then,” Greg said. “We’ll both kick a habit together.”

Sherlock looked at him again. “Be quiet now.”

Greg grinned. He thought that was as close to an agreement as he was going to get. He stood up and walked behind Sherlock. “So, seen anything?” he asked.

Sherlock frowned. “The wife was in the dining room before the power outage. Look how she drags her leg. There is no way she got from there to the study, killed him and got back in three minutes.”

Greg nodded. “I agree,” he said.

“The staff are all right-handed,” Sherlock bemoaned. “With the exception of one cook, but she couldn’t have got from there and back in three minutes either, look at the size of her.”

Greg wanted to tell Sherlock off for being insensitive, but whatever his conclusion, he had a point. Sherlock glared at the computer. “This is all useless,” he murmured. “I’m missing something. What am I missing? There’s CCTV at every door, a list of staff here. Not a single member was out of the house, none. No changes in cars outside in the street… Who had motive to kill? The wife was beaten for years, of course she had desire to kill him but it wasn’t her. The brother had been taken for thousands but he’s not in the house, it’s clear. How did that case even get to court?”

Greg pressed his lips together but didn’t reply.

“He had a lot of enemies abroad. He worked with Mycroft. Worked with Mycroft… Maybe Mycroft organised a hit?”

Greg stared at Sherlock. “Are you actually serious?”

“No. Mycroft would have had someone blow his brains out, not slash his throat. Not poetic enough for him.”

“Oh good God,” Greg muttered, putting his head in his hands.

“He had enemies. In the Government?” Sherlock pulled a face. “I need files. I need documents. I need Mycroft,” he added bitterly.

“You need Mycroft?”

“Mycroft knew him, he’d know his enemies. You hardly investigated his work. Why?”

“We were convinced it was the brother,” Greg said as Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Alright, I know it was wrong now. You don’t need to rub it in.”

Greg pulled his chair around so he could sit next to Sherlock. They both watched the CCTV turn back on, where Hadrian Kirkcudbright was now visible. Dead. Greg rubbed his head. If Sherlock didn’t work this out, they had no chance.

Edmund Bullock walked in. “We’ve got a body, sir. It’s… unpleasant.”

Greg frowned. “They’re all unpleasant.”

“Sir he’s…” Edmund winced. “In parts.”

Sherlock stood up. “Let’s go.”

Greg glanced at him. “Sherlock…”

“It’s keeping my brain active, Lestrade. Keeping me off the good stuff.”

Greg couldn’t help but laugh. “Alright, alright. Sherlock, you’re with me. Bullock, get Donovan and get a forensics expert on the scene.”

 

* * *

 

Greg fidgeted as they sat in traffic. “Shit, I need a smoke,” Greg muttered, tapping his fingers on the wheel. “I should have had one last one. Why didn’t I have one last one?”

Sherlock reached into his jacket pocket and held out a packet of nicotine patches. Greg stared at him. “Why do you have nicotine patches?”

“I’m trying to kick every habit at once.”

Greg glanced at the traffic before taking one out and sticking it on his arm. He drove them in silence to the crime scene, his cravings slightly reduced by the time they arrived.

They put on the protective forensics clothing before following Sally and Edmund into a nicely-kept house. There was sheet music by the front door, a few drips of blood on the page. Sherlock crouched down by it. “Guilty by Russ Columbo,” he muttered.

“You can tell that from the notes?” Greg asked, amazed.

“No, it has the title on the top,” Sherlock said, exasperated.

Greg chuckled a bit and stepped into the hallway. Sherlock stood up and they moved into the lounge. There was the body. Or rather. Parts. Greg closed his eyes for a few seconds, wishing it wasn’t what he had just seen. He looked again. Oh bloody hell.

Sherlock showed no such disgust while Sally had her hand over her mouth, leaning against the wall like she would either faint or throw up. “Donovan, if you’re going to collapse, get out. I won’t judge you,” Greg said as he shuddered. Still not the worst crime scene ever.

Greg turned and looked out of the living room door as footsteps moved down the hallway. A man with longish hair and a beard in the forensics gear strode towards him. “Detective Inspector Lestrade?” he asked.

Greg nodded. “Yeah. You?”

“Philip Anderson.”

“You new?” Greg asked.

“Started last week,” Anderson replied.

“Oh an amateur,” Sherlock muttered from the living room. “Come in then, Anderson, let’s see what you can do.”

“Oh Jesus Christ,” Greg muttered. “Shut up Sherlock!”

Sherlock walked into the hallway. “I’m serious. This is your new so-called expert, he can prove himself to me.”

“And who exactly are you?” Anderson asked.

“Sherlock Holmes. Consulting Detective.”

“No, you’re not,” Greg groaned.

Anderson and Sherlock stared at each other. “Do we need to put them on a table and measure?” Sally asked as she walked to the front door. “I’m getting fresh air,” she explained.

Greg looked between Sherlock and Anderson. “Do you want to see the body?” Greg murmured. Putting them on a table and measuring may not actually have been a bad idea…

Anderson stormed past Sherlock, their shoulders hitting each other as he barged past. Greg pointed at Sherlock. “Behave!”

“That was him,” Sherlock replied petulantly. Greg bit back a retort and he and Sherlock walked back into the living room.

“Go on then,” Greg said. “I don’t care who does it, just tell me what I need to know.”

“Male, late 30s,” Anderson said. “Killed by what looks like a blow to the head and then cut to bits. He’s been dead about two days.”

“And?” Sherlock asked.

“And what?”

“What else?”

“What else?” Anderson frowned.

“Yes, what else, Anderson?” Sherlock asked, folding his arms. “Or did you miss it? The fact he’s recently divorced, two children, musician, likely a singer of jazz music, but his band recently deserted him in favour of a new member. Quite a temper, prone to angry outbursts, used to teach piano. He is a street performer, three - no four - times a week.”

Anderson stared at him, frowning. Greg bit back the grin on his face. Oh, he loved it when Sherlock did this. He couldn’t help himself.

“What was he hit with?” Sherlock asked, looking up at Anderson.

“I don’t know,” Anderson said, folding his arms. “Something heavy.”

Sherlock snorted. “Oh, something heavy. That narrows it down.” Sherlock shook his head. “It was a brass instrument. Is that heavy enough for you? Trumpet most likely, judging by the edge on his head wound. Band mate killed him, probably for the money he stole from them. Find the trumpeter, find the killer.” Sherlock sighed. “And this case had so much promise…”

He stood up, peeling the gloves off. Greg looked at him, impressed. Anderson looked like he was about to commit a murder himself. Greg put his body in between them, looking at Sherlock. “Are you going to explain how you came to that?”

“No,” Sherlock said. “I’ll leave that to your resident expert.” Sherlock looked pointedly at Anderson before strolling out of the house. Greg bit his lip. Anderson glared at him.

“What was that?” he asked bitterly.

“Sherlock Holmes,” Greg said. “Self-proclaimed Consulting Detective. Full-time arsehole. You’ll be seeing a lot of each other.” Greg looked down at the body. “So. Murder weapon?”

Anderson just continued to glare.

 

* * *

 

Greg got a bollocking from Anderson’s boss in the forensics squad later that day. Sally and Greg brought in the killer and got a confession within an hour. Greg found Anderson’s number and dropped him a text to apologise for his behaviour. Sherlock responded to Greg’s thank you text with a smug reply. Greg stayed up until late completing his notes. A report from forensics confirmed the murder weapon.

Greg thanked his lucky stars for Sherlock Holmes.

 

* * *

 

Three days later, after the murderer pleaded guilty at the Magistrate’s Court, Sherlock Holmes put the first case up on his blog: The Subdivided Crooner.

Mycroft emailed Greg the link with a single sentence in the email: ‘I believe his new website is your doing?’

Greg simply laughed in disbelief. 


	18. You Hold The Weight Of Every Moment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think it's wrong to have a favourite chapter in your own work, but this was my favourite to write (so far!) I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I adored writing it.  
> I must say it again, because you folks are so intensely loyal to commenting that I cannot say thank you enough. So this is totally dedicated to KingTaran, Velma, Queenoftheuniverse, MisplacedLonelyHeartsAd and MoonRiver - you utter superstars!

_May, 2006_

Greg had a headache. It started the second he saw a huge pile of files on his desk. It only got progressively worse after his first coffee. Not smoking did not agree with him, he decided. It was all for a good cause. To prove to Sherlock they could all shrug off their bad habits. But it didn’t make the desire for nicotine any less potent.

Having Sherlock back and hanging around the Yard was not doing wonders for his blood pressure either. He tapped his pen against the desk, the only thought in his head ‘need a cigarette. Just one will be alright, and then I’ll stop forever.’

He looked up at the knock on the door and couldn’t help the smile on his face as Mycroft walked in, along with his assistant. Anthea, was it? Most unusually, he wasn’t wearing a tie. Greg’s smile turned to a frown.

Mycroft looked bewildered at his change in expression for a split second before rolling his eyes and shaking his head. “Sherlock,” he explained. “He demanded I gave him a lift to Bartholomew’s and the reward for my favour was the destruction of my tie.”

Greg laughed. “He’ll probably use it in an experiment,” he said. “He did the same to mine last year.”

Mycroft shook his head. “He’s worse than ever since he got back. May I have a seat?”

“Course. What’s up?” Greg glanced at Anthea. She stood against the wall, phone in hand. “Do you want a coffee?”

“Yes please,” Mycroft said, his voice sounding almost desperate, and Greg pulled himself up out of his chair and moved to the machine. He picked up the Bunny Suicide mug and spooned in some granules.

“Anthea? Coffee?”

“No,” she said.

“Sherlock has been working with you a lot this week,” Mycroft remarked.

Greg poured the milk. “Yeah, we’ve had a few things on. Nothing impossible, but enough to keep us going.” He put the mugs down on the desk and sank back down in his seat. He switched the computer screen off. “So, what brings you both here?” He glanced at Anthea who was still working on her phone.

“One of your officers is still investigating the death of the Russian woman,” Mycroft said.

Greg frowned. “No they’re not.”

“Yes they are.”

Without a word, Anthea bent down, retrieving some files from a briefcase. She put them down on the desk in front of her boss and Mycroft slid them over to Greg. “Those are internet searches from the Yard in the past month,” she said.

Greg stared across at Mycroft. He reached out and hooked his finger in the handle of Mycroft’s coffee mug, pulling it over to his side of the desk. Mycroft looked at him, an mournful expression on his face. “I’m taking your coffee hostage,” Greg said. “I don’t know when I’m going to give it back to you yet. You can’t just trace our Google searches.”

“Yes we can and we have,” Anthea said. “Tell the person involved to drop the matter immediately.”

“No you can’t,” Greg said.

“Greg-” Mycroft started.

Greg pointed at him. “No. Don’t do that. Look, I don’t know who it was, but it’s not like I told them the Government walked into my office and took my files.”

Anthea sighed. “Mr Holmes, I told you I should have handled this.”

Mycroft held his hand up, silencing her. “Greg, I thought you and I understood each other.”

Greg snorted. “Understood each other? Are you actually having a laugh? In what way do I understand you?” Mycroft stared at him from across the table. Greg folded his arms before taking a purposeful sip of coffee from the mug he’d made up for Mycroft. “Are you pouting?” Greg asked, grinning. If Mycroft wanted the coffee, he’d have to work for it.

“No,” Mycroft said, frowning.

“How badly do you want this coffee?” Greg asked, holding the mug up. Mycroft followed the mug’s movements with his eyes. “It’s pretty decent actually. Well, decent for me anyway, I don’t make good coffee apparently.”

Mycroft pressed his lips together. “Your staff need to stop looking into the case.”

“Alright,” Greg said. “Go and tell them that.”

“I explained the situation-”

“This is my job, Mycroft.”

“And this is my job, Detective Inspector.”

“Oh for God’s sake,” Anthea muttered.

Mycroft turned his head sharply, looking at her. “Anthea!”

“What?” she asked. Mycroft didn’t say a word, just continued to stare at her. She put her phone into her pocket. “Detective Inspector. My boss needs your staff to do what we’re asking. It would be very much appreciated.”

“Anthea…” Mycroft murmured.

“Mr Holmes. You employ me because you trust my negotiation skills. I am under the impression the Detective Inspector expects something in return for his help.”

“No, I don’t need anything-” Greg started.

“Anthea, please leave us a moment,” Mycroft said sharply. She rolled her eyes and left the room. “You’re unhappy,” Mycroft said, looking at Greg.

“Too right I bloody am,” Greg muttered.

“What can I give you to improve your mood?”

“A promise you’ll stop spying on me.”

“I’m not spying on you.”

“Feels like it,” Greg muttered in response.

Mycroft looked down at the coffee cup Greg had stolen from him before he spoke again. “Come to my office this evening.”

“Why?”

“Because I’ll make it worth your time.”

“How?”

“I have been in a new job for the past two weeks and I’m yet to celebrate.”

Greg rolled his eyes. “I thought you wanted to improve my mood, not invite me to a party to celebrate your pay rise,” he muttered bitterly, turning the computer monitor back on and ignoring Mycroft completely.

“It isn’t a party. It would be you and I and a bottle of champagne.”

Greg narrowed his eyes, turning back to him. “Is it expensive?”

“Only the very best.”

“Is it paid for by the tax payer?” Mycroft didn’t reply. “Only, if it is paid for by the tax payer, then I don’t think it’s right that you get to drink all of it.”

“So I can expect to see you this evening?”

Greg folded his arms. “This is not me forgiving you.”

“I know.”

“It better be bloody good champagne.”

“I promise.”

“Is this how you negotiate with everyone? Offer them a bottle of bubbly?”

“There are many offers I can make.”

“Well, don’t I feel special…” Greg muttered.

“Why not? I can count on one hand the number of people who have visited this particular office.”

Greg almost laughed. “Mycroft, even if your office is an executive box at the Emirates, it’s not going to impress me.”

“Why not?”

“Because buildings and power don’t impress me.”

Mycroft tilted his head. “And what does impress you?”

“You’re the genius. Figure it out.”

“I will see you this evening. The car will be by your flat at 8.30.”

Greg hesitated before answering. “See you tonight then.”

“Have a nice day.”

“And you. Don’t go giving someone else that champagne. It’s got my name on it.”

“Greg, needless to say…”

“My staff will stop looking into your case.” Greg looked at him. “You need a better way of asking me to do things for you, Mycroft. Saying please wouldn’t actually kill you.”

“I’ll bear that in mind,” Mycroft murmured, standing up and walking to the door.

“Hey, Mycroft,” Greg said. The man turned and looked at him. “Sorry about the coffee hostage situation.”

Mycroft gave him a half smile. “All is fair in negotiation,” he said, before leaving the office.

Greg shook his head in amusement, knowing all too-well no part of that conversation was a negotiation. But he let it go, even so.

 

* * *

 

After work, Greg walked to his flat and put a choose-your-own-toppings Asda pizza in the oven. He went into his bedroom and opened up his wardrobe. He needed more shirts.

He hated shopping, and Caroline always kept his wardrobe up-to-date with plenty of clothes for Christmas and birthday gifts. But Greg hadn’t bought a single piece of clothing since he and Caroline had broken up. Mycroft probably had a tailor all of his own who picked items out especially for him and his long legs and pert… Greg covered his face with his hands making a frustrated groan.

Why the hell had he allowed himself to get so attracted to Mycroft? It was bloody embarrassing. Mycroft probably looked at his face every time he walked in the room and instantly knew Greg was thinking about kissing him and blowing him and letting him come anywhere. Everywhere.

Greg fetched himself a beer from the fridge, turning the TV on as he waited for his food. After eating, he got into the shower, telling himself he was showering because he’d spent the day at work. He wasn’t showering for Mycroft Holmes. He washed his hair, lathered his body in his new body wash (which he didn’t buy for Mycroft Holmes).

He shaved his stubble (not for Mycroft Holmes) and walked through to his bedroom with a towel around his hips. He picked out the nicest shirt he could find - a dark blue one - and pulled on some jeans. They were his best jeans. A pair Caroline had spent a fair bit of money on (not for Mycroft Holmes).

He patted down his damp hair and looked at himself in the mirror as he put on some aftershave (totally and completely not for Mycroft Holmes). He looked good, if he could say so himself. Although the grey hair used to embarrass him, maybe he could accept Caroline’s compliment that it made him look a bit more distinguished.

He sat down with a second beer in front of the television, wondering what the night had in store. Sharing a bottle of champagne with Mycroft was definitely unusual. It seemed a bit too… friendly. As friends. And he was certain Mycroft wasn’t looking for that and yet, and yet…

Greg shook his head, resolving not to give the unusual relationship he had with Mycroft any further thought. If they spent the night enjoying each other’s company (and Greg knew he did enjoy his company) then that was great. If it ended with them both giving each other a blowjob then that was great too.

The car pulled up outside his flat at 8.30pm sharp, and Greg pocketed his phone and locked up. His phone beeped while he was on his way down the steps, but he was sure it was probably the driver letting him know he was there.

Greg slid onto the soft leather seat, watching out of the window. They drove through Pall Mall but did not stop, and Greg watched, curious, for where this office might be.

He recognised a lot of London and knew when they were heading towards Mayfair. He recognised Green Street instantly. When he had first joined the force, he visited Green Street with his then Detective Inspector, where a stinking rich man’s office had been broken into.

The man had taken an instant dislike to Greg. He had been young and a bit full of himself at the time. As a kid who had grown up with nothing, seeing a man who had inherited everything he could ever desire drove Greg up the wall. And yeah, it was wrong, but he almost thought the bloke deserved everything he got coming to him if he didn’t spend enough on his own security.

The telling off he got from the man and his boss was enough to teach him a lesson. He never took the same attitude with anyone again, rich or not. Policing was about talking to people in all sectors of society. And Greg had learnt a different tone for different people in different circumstances.

He looked up at the buildings in Green Street as they stopped. The driver pulled the window dividing the front and back of the car aside. “It is the white door there,” he said.

Greg frowned. The building in question was quite unnoticeable, stood between two large ornate and imposing buildings with fancy doors and security guards stood outside. Greg had expected Mycroft’s office to be just like Crusader House. But it wasn’t. If you weren’t looking for the building in question, you wouldn’t look twice at it. And Greg supposed that was the attraction of it. The building screamed ‘no Government secrets kept here, try next door’.

Greg stepped out of the car, patting down his hair. It was still warm and light outside, the birds chattering as they were just on their way to bed.

The door opened before he had a chance to knock. A security guard appeared. “Name?” he asked.

“Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade,” Greg said, frowning.

“Identification?” the security guard demanded. Greg felt his pockets and pulled out his badge. The guard inspected it before standing aside. “I need you to put your belongings in this box to be scanned, and I need you to look directly into the camera to your right please.”

Greg hesitated for a moment before taking the rest of his possessions out of his pockets and emptying them into a box. A female security guard flashed him a small smile as she checked the items on her computer. Greg looked at the camera as instructed. Three seconds later, he was asked to walk through the metal scanner where he would be reunited with his possessions.

He did so without setting it off, but a third guard gave him a once over with a metal detector nonetheless. He pocketed his phone and wallet.

“This is Mr Finck. He will direct you to your meeting.”

Greg nodded and followed the young man, probably in his late 20s, up the stairs. “Nice building this,” Greg said, making small talk. The man did not reply.

Greg was led into a long thin office with 12 tables along the length of the walls. There were no windows, and it was dimly lit with a lamp and safe on each desk. None of the desks appeared to have personal items on them. There were no shelves, no cupboards, no filing cabinets. Everything of importance, Greg imagined, had been locked away. He followed the man to where the offices were.

One said Ms Boyette on the door. Anthea’s office. Beside it, Mr Holmes. The man knocked on the door. Two seconds later, without receiving a response, he opened it.

Mycroft was sat behind a computer and looked up as the door opened. Greg felt a clench in his chest, both a strange, excited anxiety and a general relief just to see him. “Thank you, Danny,” Mycroft said. “Please go home now, I no longer require you. Wish your daughter a very happy birthday. Here…” Mycroft opened a drawer and held out a small book.

Greg glanced at Danny, who seemed genuinely moved by the gesture. “What is it, sir?” Danny asked.

“It is a first edition Beatrix Potter book,” Mycroft explained. “The first she published. Anthea was sure your daughter would like it. Ten is, after all, a landmark year.”

Danny walked forward slowly, bowing his head a little as he took the book from Mycroft. “This is amazing, thank you, sir. Kim will love it.”

Mycroft smiled warmly. “Good evening, Danny.”

“Night, sir,” Danny said, staring at the book as he walked out of the office. Greg stared at Mycroft but stayed quiet until the door closed.

“That was really nice,” Greg said.

Mycroft looked at him. “It is important to keep your employees on your side.”

“Yeah, I agree with that,” Greg said, standing awkwardly. He wondered if that was all it was or whether Mycroft was almost embarrassed for being - well - nice. He looked around the office. It was black. Dark. Foreboding. No wonder not many people visited this office. It was freaking creepy. “This is like Batman’s office. If he had an office,” Greg said looking around. The Queen’s portrait stared at him, from above Mycroft’s head. “Do you really like this kind of room?”

Mycroft opened his mouth to speak and then closed it again. Greg watched him. “I didn’t really have a say in the decor,” Mycroft finally admitted. “It came like this, and I saw no reason to change it.”

“It’s intimidating,” Greg said.

“I am not trying to intimidate you,” Mycroft replied. Greg glanced at the red phone on the desk and raised his eyebrows. “Please take a seat,” Mycroft said.

Greg sat down in the leather chair on the opposite side of the desk. He looked at Mycroft, chewing his lip and trying to think of something to say. Mycroft was watching him, analysing most likely.

Anthea strolled in without knocking, a bottle of champagne in one hand. She put it down on a tray on the table, and held out a card to Greg. “This is your security card for the building,” she said. “It ensures you will not need to go through all the rigmarole at the front in future.”

Greg hesitated before taking it from her. The black card had his name and face on it - taken from the camera when he first entered, he realised. In gold writing it merely said Coeur de Lion Offices. “Um. Thanks,” Greg said, taking out his wallet and tucking the card inside it.

Anthea turned and picked some glasses up off the table behind her. “Would you like me to open this, sir?” she asked, looking at Mycroft.

“No, I will do it. Thank you, Anthea. Please, enjoy your holiday.”

“I will,” she said. “I will see you in a week.” She looked at Greg. “Keep him out of trouble,” she said, raising one eyebrow before leaving the office.

Greg laughed. “I can’t imagine you’re ever in trouble.”

Mycroft offered a half smile. “Anthea keeps me in line,” he said. He reached for the champagne bottle and began twisting the metal hook. Greg sat back in his chair, looking around.

“So, how many offices do you have?”

“A few,” Mycroft said. “I moved to a new one in Whitehall a few days ago.”

“For your promotion?” Greg asked.

“Yes.”

Mycroft slowly began to take the cork out of the bottle. Greg fidgeted nervously in his chair. He thought he’d put some effort into his clothes, but he hadn’t taken into account how perfectly dressed Mycroft always was in his pinstripe suit. His jeans weren’t exactly… smart. Not that Mycroft had appeared to look down on him in anyway. But he still felt like he was wearing the wrong thing.

Mycroft poured the champagne, waiting for the bubbles to melt away before filling the glasses up to the top. He didn’t spill a drop. He took one of the glasses and Greg picked up the other.

“Well. To your promotion then,” Greg said and Mycroft smiled coolly.

“Thank you.”

Greg nodded and took a sip of his drink. It was like no champagne he’d ever had before. He closed his eyes for a moment, savouring the bubbles fizzing on his tongue. It was perfect for him. He hated sweet champagne and wine. But this was just sweet enough to keep him drinking, but not sickly. Not sickly at all. Mycroft was watching him with interest from the other side of the table. “It’s good,” Greg said and Mycroft duly took a sip before nodding.

“Anthea has exquisite taste.”

Greg smiled. “So do you,” he said, eyeing the large dark table. Mycroft looked at him, narrowing his eyes a little as he smiled back.

“Yes, I do,” he replied pointedly, his gaze fixed on Greg. Greg felt his cheeks warm and he took a long gulp of his champagne. Christ. He hadn’t meant him. That wasn’t what he meant at all. He definitely didn’t want to sound like he was playing his own trumpet. Mycroft tilted his head a little. “Do I make you uncomfortable?” he asked.

“No,” Greg said quickly. “No, never. I just.” Greg shook his head. “So. What’s your favourite colour?” Mycroft looked bewildered. Oh well done, Lestrade, Greg thought to himself. You sound like a gibbering idiot.

“I don’t believe I have a favourite colour,” Mycroft said.

“I like red,” Greg said dumbly.

“Ah yes. Arsenal.”

Greg nodded. “Yeah,” he muttered awkwardly. Sound cool. Say something cool, he thought. You can come back from this… Oh, who was he kidding? Mycroft was the epitome of cool as a cucumber and had far more important things to do than listen to Greg ask stupid questions about favourite colours and…

“Green,” Mycroft said after a long minute. “It isn’t a colour I wear very often. In fact, I don’t think I even own a green tie. But I think that’s what I prefer.”

“Oh,” Greg said, smiling a little.

“Do you go to football often?” Mycroft asked.

Greg shook his head. “No, a couple of games a season. They sort of out-price fans there, to be honest. But I watch it on TV when I can. When they’re on.”

“Why did you choose Arsenal?”

“The ground was about 20 minutes away from the kids’ home. I used to…” Greg smiled at the memory. “When I used to sneak out, I’d go on Saturdays and sit outside and listen to the cheering during the games.”

“That sounds wonderful,” Mycroft murmured.

“Have you ever been interested in sport?”

“Not particularly,” Mycroft said. He took a sip of his drink. “A man I was intimate with at university was a cox for the First Team at Oxford. I would occasionally watch their races.”

Greg looked at him, surprised. Someone Mycroft was intimate with. Although he knew they must have existed, and Sherlock had alluded to it, the topic of conversation had thrown Greg off track. He didn’t expect Mycroft would ever talk about his personal life in those terms. Greg felt… honoured, actually. He didn’t imagine Mycroft shared those things about himself very often.

“When was your last relationship?” Greg asked before he could stop himself.

Mycroft didn’t flinch like Greg had expected him to. If anything, his face lost all emotion, but he didn’t look shocked by the question. “Around five years ago,” he replied.

“You’re younger than me, right?” Greg asked.

Mycroft smiled a little. “I don’t know. Am I?”

“I’m 39,” Greg said.

“36,” Mycroft replied, sipping his drink.

“You don’t need to look so smug about that,” Greg grinned. Mycroft laughed, and Greg picked up the champagne bottle to top up their drinks.

“When was the last time you were with a man?” Mycroft asked.

Greg tried to hide his surprise at the question. “Just before I met Caroline,” he said.

“Do you miss her?”

“No not really,” Greg said. “I guess I should, but, no.”

Mycroft nodded. “Greg, I feel should make myself clear. I am not looking for a relationship.”

“Neither am I,” Greg said, looking at him. “Divorce isn’t even finalised yet and I’m…” What? Scared? Enjoying being single? Mycroft looked relieved. “I liked having sex with you though,” Greg said shyly. “So if you ever wanted…”

“I do,” Mycroft said, so quietly that Greg wasn’t sure he’d heard him correctly. Greg grinned.

“Willing to be a slave to your desires, huh?” Greg asked, repeating a comment Mycroft had made the last time they’d been together.

Mycroft smiled. “On this occasion, I think I may give in, yes. You’re very undemanding.”

“Undemanding?” Greg repeated.

“Yes. You have no expectations of me. I find I rather appreciate that.”

Greg shrugged a little. “I kinda like hanging out with you as… well, friends almost, sort of, maybe? You know what I mean.”

“As friends,” Mycroft agreed.

Greg smiled at him. “Yeah, as friends. With a bit of sex thrown in for good measure.”

Mycroft smiled. “Yes.”

Greg grinned and kicked his shoes off, stretching his legs out onto Mycroft’s desk. Mycroft laughed in response, sipping his champagne. “You’re incorrigible,” Mycroft said, a warm smile on his face.

Greg laughed. “I’ve heard that before.” He wriggled his sock-covered toes, wondering how much the desk he had his feet on was worth. How much the champagne in his hand cost. Enjoy it, Greg. You never know how long it could last.

Mycroft was watching him with a content expression, and Greg enjoyed how relaxed he looked, even sat in his suit and tie. “I think you’re gorgeous,” Greg finally said, looking at him. Mycroft’s lips parted and his eyes widened as he took in the compliment. Greg smiled at him. “Sorry if I didn’t make that clear before,” Greg said.

“I… oh… well no but… I… thank you,” Mycroft stammered, staring down at his drink. Greg tilted his head at him.

“Should I not have said that?” he asked.

“No, it’s… wonderful,” Mycroft murmured. “I, of course, return the compliment.” Greg smiled and looked away. “You see,” Mycroft said. “You are as terrible at accepting a compliment as I am.”

Greg laughed. “I can’t believe it’s been more than a year since I met Sherlock.”

“More than a year since you were made DI,” Mycroft said. “That is a far more life-changing accomplishment, I assure you.”

Greg laughed. “Yeah, true. It’s been a pretty mad 12 months. So, your promotion. What does it mean for you?”

“Less field work,” Mycroft said. “I expect I will be travelling out of the country more for the Government and less for…” Mycroft sighed. “You know, of course, everything I tell you stays within these walls?”

Greg nodded. “Course. I signed your documents and stuff.”

“I will be working less for the Secret Intelligence Service than previously.”

“MI6,” Greg murmured.

Mycroft nodded. “Yes. You know the difference between MI5 and MI6.”

“Yeah,” Greg agreed. “You always been six?”

“No,” Mycroft said. “I started at MI5. It was my first job after university.”

“What did you study?” Greg asked.

Mycroft looked confused, as though expecting Greg would be more interested in spy work than university. Greg thought that look Mycroft wore was fantastic. Because, as ever, it meant he surprised the older Holmes brother yet again. “Law and Classics,” Mycroft said.

“Oh, you did a joint?”

“No,” Mycroft said. “I taught myself Classics as a relaxing past-time.”

Greg snorted with laughter. “You taught yourself Classics on top of doing full-time Law?”

“Yes, of course,” Mycroft confirmed. “I also learnt Mandarin and Russian.”

Greg stared at him. “Jesus. You know, I’ve said this before, but you really must think I am an idiot.”

“Not at all,” Mycroft said. “You have different strengths. You have an emotional intelligence neither Sherlock or I could ever possess.”

Greg frowned at that.

“What did you study?” Mycroft asked.

“History. I know, I know, cop out subject.”

“Not at all,” Mycroft said. “I never thought you would be interested in it.”

“Well I didn’t know what to do. I wanted to go to uni because I wanted to move out and didn’t know what else to do. I picked history as the best of a bad lot really.”

“Did you enjoy it?”

“Yeah actually. I wasn’t brilliant at it. But learning about events and stuff that went on… I was crap at analysing it, which was obviously the bit that got you the grades. But I could sit for hours learning about wars and kings and politics and stuff. I didn’t like the reading. But documentaries and lectures… Yeah. You could lecture me all you wanted about the world. It interests me.”

Mycroft gave him a soft smile, one which made Greg less ashamed of how he felt about his intelligence. “You are extraordinary,” Mycroft murmured. Greg looked down at his drink and topped it up. He stared at his feet, unable to meet Mycroft’s eyes. “Don’t be embarrassed,” Mycroft said.

“I am a bit,” Greg said. “I’m pretty sure no one’s said anything like that about me. And definitely not someone who’s a bloody genius, helps run the Government and the security services and is just… well, good looking too.”

“I don’t run the Government or the security services, Greg.”

“No, but they need you, right? You’re like the cog that keeps everything going.”

“As you are in your team.”

Greg snorted. “God I wish. Nothing like having your brother come in to make you feel useless.”

“Sherlock is a very intelligent man. But you have many qualities he doesn’t possess.”

“Like?” Greg asked.

“People like you. They respect you, they follow you without question. Sherlock and I can take a look at someone and know everything which ails them. But you, Greg, you actually care to ask.” Greg looked over the table at him. “Sherlock has no right to ever make you feel inferior.”

“You never failed him, Mycroft,” Greg said suddenly, not sure where it came from. Mycroft pressed his lips together and poured the last of his champagne into his glass. “He’s an idiot if he doesn’t see what you’ve done for him.”

“He doesn’t like me, he never has.”

“Then he’s more of an idiot than I thought. You’re right, he has the emotional intelligence of a mushroom.”

Mycroft chuckled. Greg finished his champagne, took his feet down from the table and stood up. Mycroft kept his eyes on him as circled around the desk. To Greg’s delight, Mycroft moved his chair backwards, allowing Greg to stand between him and the table. Greg leaned back against the desk, looking down at the man in front of him.

Mycroft watched him back with a half smile. Greg watched as he sipped his champagne. “Is there any more of that?” Greg asked, eyeing the glass.

“Yes,” Mycroft murmured.

“Can we drink it?”

“Yes.”

“After this,” Greg said, leaning forward and brushing the backs of his fingers against Mycroft’s cheek. He saw the man’s chest rise and fall with a soft breath. Greg felt the skin under his fingers, the beginning of faint evening stubble there. His index finger traced a line down Mycroft’s cheek, over the curves of his top lip and down to the indent of his chin. He saw Mycroft swallow as his finger began a slow descent down his throat.

Greg stood up and pulled the red tie free of his waistcoat. He untied it slowly with Mycroft’s eyes on his. “You asked me about what impressed me earlier,” Greg said, his voice low. “Did you figure it out?”

“No,” Mycroft admitted, his voice almost choked as Greg withdrew the tie from his collar, setting it down on the desk.

“Honesty. Caring. What you did for that bloke earlier… Mycroft, it was the kindest thing in the world. I don’t care why you did it. The fact you did speaks volumes as far as I’m concerned.”

Mycroft blushed, as far as Greg could make out in the low light. Greg unbuttoned the top fastening of his shirt, letting his finger brush the skin it revealed. “You’re the extraordinary one,” Greg said. “And you surprise me too.” He looked at Mycroft’s face. “I don’t know why you’ve decided to count me as a friend or why you thought I’d be good to have for sex. But I’m not complaining.” Greg unfastened another button. “And you can have me for as long as you want.”

He sunk down to his knees and heard Mycroft’s shaky exhale of breath. Greg stroked his hands along Mycroft’s thighs and muttered “fuck, your legs are perfect. Did you know that?” Mycroft shook his head. “Well they are. They’re just… your legs are great.” Greg looked up at him. “All of you is great, alright?”

Mycroft nodded slowly, letting Greg gently push his legs apart, his thumbs rubbing circles on the inside of his thighs. Greg rubbed his cheek against the fabric. “There’s not enough time in the world for the things I want to do to you,” Greg said huskily. “Anything, everything you want. Just say the word.”

“This… this is fine,” Mycroft whispered.

Greg lowered his hands, his fingers stroking the backs of Mycroft’s knees and down along his calves. “You’re perfect, you’re perfect,” he murmured, as his hands drifted to Mycroft’s ankles. He untied his shoes, slipping them off one at a time and putting them underneath the desk. Greg looked up at him. “Can you tell what I’m thinking right now, Mycroft?” Mycroft swallowed and shook his head. Greg grinned up at him. “I think you’re bloody sexy.”

He sat up on his knees, reaching for Mycroft’s belt. “Can I?” Mycroft nodded wordlessly. “Oh yes,” Greg said softly, unfastening the belt and pulling it free of the loops as slowly as he could. He placed it down on the floor as he unfastened Mycroft’s trousers. He saw Mycroft’s lips part, as though he wanted to say something. “It’s okay,” Greg said. “I want to do this. You don’t need to say anything if you don’t want to.”

He kissed Mycroft’s knee, slowly pulling down the zip. He looked up at Mycroft’s face. “I need to kiss you. Is that alright?” Mycroft nodded again.

Greg stood up and rubbed his thumb against Mycroft’s chin. He touched the man’s cheek, moving his face forward. He pressed his lips to the spot just beside the corner of Mycroft’s mouth. Mycroft’s face turned towards his and Greg brushed their lips together. Mycroft hand wrapped around Greg’s neck as they deepened the kiss. Greg groaned, nibbling Mycroft’s bottom lip. He felt his other hand trail down his back to rest on his arse.

Greg’s back ached in this position, but he didn’t want to stop kissing the man in front of him, especially when they each parted their lips and their tongues touched, where the only thing he could concentrate on was the things their lips and tongues were doing. Mycroft’s hand squeezed his arse, and Greg moved closer to the chair.

He sucked on Mycroft’s bottom lip, drawing it in between his and losing himself to the kiss.

He pulled back, breathing hard and the look of lust in Mycroft’s eyes had him dropping back down to his knees. “Take those off for me,” Greg said, touching Mycroft’s trousers.

Mycroft consented immediately, standing up, and slowly pushing down his trousers and boxers. Greg let out a breath, looking at Mycroft’s thighs, his cock hard. Mycroft slowly lowered himself back into the chair, and Greg rubbed his thighs. He spread Mycroft’s legs, looking up at him still with his jacket, waistcoat and shirt on. One day he’d get him naked. But all he wanted to do at that moment was taste, make him come.

Greg moved to give himself a better angle and wrapped his hand around Mycroft’s cock. He shuddered at the contact and Greg took him straight into his mouth, groaning as he pressed his tongue against Mycroft’s length.

This used to be his favourite thing. It was always incredibly submissive, yet powerful at the same time. Intimate and truthful. There was nothing to hide as far as Greg was concerned, when the only thing he wanted to do was use his mouth to pleasure a man. And this man in particular.

This man who now had one hand gripping the chair arm, and the other with his fingers curling in Greg’s hair. Greg took him as deep as he could in his mouth. Mycroft was giving little gasping breaths above him as Greg flicked his tongue against him.

It was hot. So hot, to have Mycroft like this. He began moving his head, delighting in the feel of Mycroft’s cock against his tongue. He loved, needed, the taste of him.

He felt his thighs, his calves, delighted in the way Mycroft shuddered as he cupped his balls with one hand and squeezed lightly and pressed a finger against his perineum. Greg kept up the motion with his head and his hand, wishing it would never end, but willing Mycroft to orgasm too. Mycroft’s hand touched his cheek, pressing almost to push him back, but Greg just sucked harder, watched Mycroft’s head drop to the back of the chair as he came, came in Greg’s mouth. And Greg swallowed what he gave, thrilled by the look of Mycroft shaking and gasping above him.

Greg pulled back as Mycroft softened, placing a tender kiss to the top of both thighs. He stroked Mycroft’s calves.

Mycroft’s eyes were pinched closed as he fought to get his breath back. Greg pressed a kiss to the side of his knee. Oh, I’ve got you, he thought. If you need me now, need me ever, I’ve got you. He pressed his cheek to Mycroft’s thigh. Mycroft’s fingers brushed through his hair and Greg closed his eyes for a second, savouring the touch.

He felt his knees ache and he sat down on the floor. “Thank you,” Mycroft murmured.

“No need,” Greg said. He stood up and pressed a kiss to Mycroft’s filtrum. The man smiled dazedly at him. Greg padded back to the other side of the desk and took his seat. Mycroft stood and adjusted his clothing. Greg eyed his flushed cheeks with a delighted smile as Mycroft reached for his phone.

“I would like the car immediately,” he said. “The Coeur de Lion Offices, if you please. Thank you.” Greg tried to stop himself from frowning. Was that… not good? “I thought we might share the last bottle of champagne at my flat,” Mycroft explained. “If you would like?”

“Yeah,” Greg murmured. “Yeah, I’d really like.” He smiled and leaned down to put his shoes back on. He saw Mycroft reach for his tie. “Leave it off,” Greg said. “I’ll only take it off again.”

Mycroft chuckled and put it in his jacket pocket. “Very well,” he murmured. He stood up and walked out of the office. Greg took a deep breath and shuffled in his chair. He was so turned on. And God, if that had felt good for Mycroft, it couldn’t possibly compare to how good that had felt for Greg. Sex with Mycroft was intense and consuming.

Mycroft emerged with another bottle of champagne in hand and Greg smiled at him, standing. He felt Mycroft’s eyes give him the once over before he turned and walked out of the office. Greg followed, taking another swift look over the office space, wondering what exactly did happen in this building.

He followed Mycroft down the stairs, marvelling in the fact he was going to the man’s flat again, this time for the purpose of - well, what, exactly? Champagne. Conversation? He felt an apprehensive flutter in his stomach. A mix of excitement and arousal and uncertainty. What did Mycroft expect of him? Anal sex? It had been a long, long time and Greg wasn’t sure that… well, that was intimate, intense, it would change their relationship irreparably. And that would be okay, actually. For a while. But he wasn’t sure he wanted to lose this friendship with Mycroft so soon.

Yeah, sure, he left Greg feeling very inferior, but he was so… warm. Warm, once you chipped away at the ice surrounding him anyway. Greg reckoned he would have been a little bit afraid of him if he had been a different kind of person. But he wasn’t a different person. He was Greg and he was never going to just back down or be afraid no matter how powerful Mycroft was.

He slid into the car and Mycroft smiled at him. There was an edge of anxiety in the air, and neither met the other’s eyes as they sat in silence on the journey towards Pall Mall.

When they were around five minutes away, Greg reached out, planting his hand on Mycroft’s thigh. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a half smile on Mycroft’s face as he gazed out of the window. Greg began to move his thumb in slow circles, delighting in the way Mycroft fidgeted in his seat just from the smallest touch.

They parked directly outside of Crusader House and Greg looked up at the building. Mycroft stepped out of the car and walked around it with the bottle of champagne in hand. The doorman let them both in without a word, and Greg followed Mycroft up the stairs, admiring his lean legs.

When they got to the living room, Greg wanted very desperately to push Mycroft up against the wall and kiss him. But he resisted the urge.

They had to find a balance between friendship and sex, where there was no blurred line in which a relationship seemed to be building. Because neither of them wanted one. That had been established. But kissing, tender kissing, edged into that category, no matter how you tried to hide it. Greg decided to make a mental list of things they would not do.

No sleeping in the same bed, no lasting hugs after sex and no sneaking kisses when they saw each other on a casual and entirely friendship-themed basis. Good rules, he thought. He’d add to it if necessary, but that was an excellent start.

Mycroft had disappeared into the kitchen and Greg slipped his shoes off before following him. Mycroft had begun pouring the champagne and Greg couldn’t resist touching him any longer. Mycroft had taken his jacket, shoes and waistcoat off, leaving him in just his shirt and trousers.

Greg stepped behind him, placing one hand on his hip before brushing his lips against the spot on the back of Mycroft’s neck where his hairline ended. Mycroft leaned back into him, letting Greg trail soft kisses over the back of his neck. Greg kissed behind his ear, felt Mycroft shiver a little, before reaching around him to take a glass of champagne. He heard Mycroft chuckle as Greg turned to walk back to the living room, a grin on his own face.

He sat down on the sofa, and to his delight, Mycroft sat down beside him, not too far away. Greg savoured his drink, leaning back into the chair. Greg looked at the other man. Oh God, the things he would like to do…

Mycroft’s hand found Greg’s knee, his thumb rubbing against it. Greg leaned towards him, pressing his lips to Mycroft’s top one. Their lips met in a few brief touches, each time finding new angles for the mouths to meet. Greg set his glass down on the table, tilting his body in towards Mycroft. Mycroft put his own glass down and pressed the tips of his fingers to Greg’s jaw. Greg’s eyes met his and they gazed at each other before Greg couldn’t take it anymore and pressed his lips hard against Mycroft’s.

The kiss deepened and Mycroft’s hand held the side of Greg’s face. Greg’s fingers traced a line down the other man’s neck. Greg moved closer to Mycroft, gently pushing him down onto his back as he straddled his hips. Mycroft’s hands slid up Greg’s back under his shirt, and Greg shuddered against him. He needed to be closer. Greg unbuttoned two of the fastenings on Mycroft’s shirt, dipping his head to kiss and lick the skin he found there. Mycroft arched up into him, his fingers moving from Greg’s back to his stomach before dropping to unbuckle his belt. Greg kissed his neck, just by his jaw, trailing his lips in an uncoordinated pattern along the skin there.

Mycroft unfastened Greg’s jeans and Greg stood up for a moment to pull them off. He moved back to his position by Mycroft’s hips and Mycroft began to unbutton his shirt. Greg groaned as the younger man sat up, dipping his head to lick Greg’s nipple, before drawing it in between his lips, flicking his tongue against the sensitive nub. Greg brushed his fingers through Mycroft’s hair and let Mycroft push him back down onto the sofa, as he pushed his shirt apart and began to trail kisses down his chest and back up to his nipples. He pinched one experimentally and Greg let out a breathy moan.

Mycroft’s hands trailed across his stomach and Greg laughed as his finger dipped into his belly button. Mycroft glanced at him with a sheepish smile and Greg curled his hand in Mycroft’s shirt collar, pulling him up for another desperate kiss.

Mycroft ground down against him, and Greg let out a low groan as their cocks brushed against each other’s through their clothing. He reached for Mycroft’s belt, pulling it out for the second time that evening and throwing it onto the floor.

They kissed hard, bruising kisses which made Greg’s lips tender and he arched his hips up as Mycroft’s teeth grazed his bottom lip before their tongues met, fought, with a passion Greg hadn’t felt in years.

He unfastened Mycroft’s trousers, pulled them down as far as he could along with his boxers, and Mycroft hooked his fingers in Greg’s underwear, leaning back to take them right off and fling them somewhere on the floor. Mycroft moved to hover back over him.

Their cocks pressed against each other’s and Greg gasped against Mycroft’s lips, reaching down to wrap his hand around as much of both of their lengths as he could. One of Mycroft’s hands joined his, his thumb rubbing the wet head of Greg’s prick.

Greg moved his hips, breaking the heated kiss to look down between their bodies. The sight alone made him reach for Mycroft’s hair, tugging him down to nip and kiss his neck again. He could smell the faint trace of aftershave and longed to know what it was so he could smell it every time he lay in bed alone with his hand around his own cock, wishing Mycroft was there with him, but not now, not now, because Mycroft was here, there, his hand around them both.

They both moved their hips, kissing hard, soft, slow and long kisses, as their hands found the perfect rhythm, joining together.

Greg felt Mycroft shudder first, his teeth biting Greg’s shoulder as he came over their cocks, hands, Greg’s stomach. Feeling Mycroft come undone, finish over his skin, pulled Greg over the edge too, and he curled his sock-covered toes into the backs of Mycroft’s legs as he arched up, coming with Mycroft all the way.

They panted together, Mycroft’s face pressing into Greg’s neck. With his clean hand, Greg wrapped an arm around his back and Mycroft lowered his body down onto him. Greg took his weight, moving a little to find a more comfortable position. He listened to Mycroft’s shaky breathing, felt his lips press lightly into a sensitive part of his neck.

Remember the rule, remember the rule, Greg thought as he kept Mycroft close. He couldn’t help but melt into the embrace. He closed his eyes, his hand stroking Mycroft’s back through his shirt. The cotton was soft to the touch; expensive.

“Are you alright?” Greg asked huskily after a few moments and felt Mycroft nod against his neck.

Greg kept the man close, holding him there until his breath began to return to normal. They breathed in a rhythm, one inhale matching the other’s exhale. As though the other’s breath was needed to keep them both alive. Mycroft moved his head before sitting up. He reached for his clothing, re-dressing. Greg watched him with a smile before sitting up himself and retrieving his boxers and jeans. He left his shirt undone as he sat back down. Mycroft reached over to a table and handed him a handkerchief. He wiped his stomach and his hand before putting it down on the table. Mycroft reached for the glasses and took a long sip from his champagne.

“You alright?” Greg asked again as he watched him. His hair was stood was impossibly humorous angles, his posture relaxed and content.

Mycroft murmured a “yes” as he sat back in the chair. Without thinking, Greg reached out and rubbed the back of his neck. Mycroft returned the gesture with a lazy smile. Greg grinned and picked up his champagne, leaving his hand possessively around the back of Mycroft’s neck. The man didn’t seem to mind as he settled back into the chair, their thighs resting against each other. Greg let out a soft sigh.

“That was amazing,” he said, sipping his drink.

Mycroft glanced at him. “Mm, it was,” he said quietly. “Are you okay?” he asked.

“Yeah, I’m great,” Greg confirmed, looking around the room. To his surprise, Mycroft lowered his head onto his shoulder, and Greg pressed his cheek against the man’s hair. They sat there in silence as Greg sipped his drink, his fingers gently rubbing circles on Mycroft’s shoulder.

“I should go,” Greg finally said. He tried to ignore the part of his mind which hoped Mycroft would tell him not to.

“I will call for the car,” Mycroft murmured, sitting back up. He looked at Greg for a second. Greg touched the bottom of Mycroft’s chin, drawing their mouths together for one lazy, sweet kiss. Mycroft smiled, almost bashfully, before standing to find his phone.

Greg finished his champagne and buttoned up his shirt. “Talk to you soon then, mate,” he said as his phone beeped to confirm the car was there. Mycroft nodded at him.

“See you very soon,” he murmured. Greg smiled at him before turning to leave the flat, his body relaxed, his heart heavy at leaving so soon.

It wasn’t until he got back to his own flat and undressed that he realised he’d buttoned his shirt up totally wrong. Mycroft hadn’t said a word. Greg slid under the covers, and as he rolled over he thought he could smell a trace of Mycroft’s aftershave on his skin. He clung to that thought as he drifted off to sleep. 


	19. The Shadows Are On The March

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a horrible thought about this story this afternoon, which was the first chapter of this should have been something else entirely! But anyhow, I will try to reign in those doubts and keep pressing on with it.  
> To JustLookFrightenedAndScuttle, KingTaran, MoonRiver, Velma, oxana, MisplacedLonelyHeartsAd and novels: So much love to you all! And to new subscribers - I hope this is to your liking.

_June, 2006_

Greg and Sherlock spent two long weeks working on a variety of cases. A few were left unsolved. On a few others Sherlock had turned his nose up and abandoned the scene after 20 seconds. Sherlock had spent a lot of time at Bart’s, for which Greg was grateful because after Anderson had told a few more people about his disagreement with the younger Holmes, Greg had some cops questioning his judgement. No one had questioned Sherlock’s involvement as a consultant, however. Not yet anyway.

Greg had the Kirkcudbright case spread out in front of him again. There was something missing from the picture and he couldn’t quite clutch at it. Which was why, at 3.23pm he decided to email Mycroft.

He didn’t want to. In fact, he’d spent the last two weeks making a concerted effort not to text, email or call. He didn’t want to seem needy or like he was after anything from him. So he left it. Until now.

 

To: Holmes, Mycroft  
Subject: Case

Hi Mycroft,  
Sherlock and I are working on the Kirkcudbright case and I have a couple of questions. Are you free sometime for a chat?  
Cheers,  
Greg

 

Sender: Holmes, Mycroft  
Subject: Re: Case

To Greg,   
I will be available this evening. Would you like me to send a car or will you make your way to Crusader House yourself? I will provide dinner. Is 8.30pm suitable?  
Kind regards,  
Mycroft Holmes

 

To: Holmes, Mycroft  
Subject: Re: Case

Hi,  
Yeah, 8.30 is good. Don’t worry about a car. It’s a nice day, I’ll just walk. See you later. Want me to bring anything?  
Greg

 

Sender: Holmes, Mycroft  
Subject: Re: Case

To Greg,  
I will ask Anthea to provide your favourite beer.  
Kind regards  
Mycroft Holmes

 

Greg sat back in his chair. He hadn’t expected that to happen so quickly. It was just a dinner and a chat. Friends. They were friends and like friends, they were having dinner and a beer or two and a talk about a case. Because mates did that.

Greg got home and showered, pulling on a t-shirt and some jeans. He put on some aftershave, but he decided not to put too much effort into his appearance. It was late, he was tired, and he just wanted to be comfortable.

He walked to Mycroft’s flat, enjoying the light breeze as night only just began to fall. Greg loved London. Sometimes he wondered where his natural parents had come from. Whether they loved London too, or whether London killed them or whether London had destroyed them. Something had happened to them to leave Greg alone in the world. Greg shook those thoughts from his mind. He couldn’t deal with thinking about his parents just now.

He was let into Crusader House with minimum fuss and walked up the flights of stairs until he reached Mycroft’s door. The butler still did not greet him with a friendly smile, but Greg was let through anyway.

Mycroft was in his chair by the fire, a laptop on a table in front of him. He looked up. “Good evening,” he murmured, closing the screen down.

“Hi. Thanks for seeing me,” Greg said. The balcony doors were open and Greg couldn’t resist walking over to them to look out to the street below.

“I took the liberty of ordering us Chinese,” Mycroft informed him.

“That sounds great,” Greg said, turning and grinning. “I’m starving.”

Mycroft smiled. “I’ll fetch you the beer I promised. Unless you would prefer something else?”

“No, beer’s great,” Greg said, setting himself down on the sofa. He adjusted the cushions at his back as Mycroft walked into the kitchen. He returned with a full pint glass and a glass of red wine for himself.

“The food should be here shortly. So, tell me. How can I be of assistance?”

Greg accepted the beer Mycroft handed him. Greg sipped it. Oh that was much, much needed. Anthea had good taste. Greg watched as Mycroft took a seat before he began to speak. “Me and Sherlock have been looking at the Kirkcudbright case. And the one line of enquiry we never followed through originally was the work angle.” Mycroft’s eyes narrowed. Greg winced a bit but kept talking. “A guy like that must have had enemies.” Mycroft didn’t move, his expression remained closed, guarded. Greg shrugged a bit. “Any assistance you can offer…”

“Hadrian Kirkcudbright had enemies all over the world,” Mycroft said abruptly. “He knew things I am not at liberty to disclose. It’s beyond your clearance.”

“Even after I signed those papers?”

“Even after. I am terribly sorry, I’m afraid I can’t be of much help. He was not killed by someone he worked for or with.”

“How do you know?” Greg asked.

“Trust me,” Mycroft said. A knock came at the door. Mycroft stood and Greg followed him with his eyes. He moved with the air of someone in command. Greg fidgeted in his seat. Mycroft took the paper bag. “We can eat in the kitchen,” he said. Greg stood and walked with him, beer in hand.

He sat down at the table, where two plates and cutlery had already been laid out and watched in silence as Mycroft set out some boxes. Greg groaned as he looked down at the selection in between them. “This is a good spread,” he said, spooning some chicken onto his plate.

Mycroft nodded and did the same. Greg glanced at him. Hm. Maybe he shouldn’t have come. Or maybe he should have just been honest and said he wanted to hang out and then subtly asked the question about Kirkcudbright. Greg twirled some noodles around his fork and saw Mycroft use his chopsticks with practised ease.

“He was well-liked at work,” Mycroft said, cutting the silence. “He wasn’t a generous man but he impressed his colleagues.”

“You liked him?” Greg asked, shoving a big piece of chicken into his mouth.

“Yes. I liked the work he did. He was good at it. I only realised what he was doing to his wife just before he was murdered.”

“I didn’t know until Sherlock pointed it out.”

“I didn’t notice until I attended a charity event they were hosting. It was the first time I met her.”

“Was there anyone there you couldn’t get a read on?” Greg asked.

Mycroft shook his head. “I recognised everyone.” Greg nodded and sipped his beer. “I wish I could be of assistance,” Mycroft said.

“It’s alright. I shouldn’t have expected you to just tell me everything.”

Mycroft ate the sweet and sour chicken. Greg spooned some more food onto his plate. Despite the silence between them, Greg didn’t feel uncomfortable. He just enjoyed his food, piling his plate high and savouring the beer.

“How long have you given up for?” Mycroft asked suddenly. Greg looked up.

“Given up what?”

“Smoking.”

“Oh.” Greg laughed. Of course Mycroft knew. “As long as Sherlock stays off the drugs.” Mycroft nodded and looked back down at his food. “You okay?”

“Yes, of course.”

Greg tilted his head at him.

“It’s nothing,” Mycroft murmured.

“What’s nothing?” Greg asked.

Mycroft sighed. “A minor crisis made worse by a Slovakian diplomat.”

“Did you sort it out?” Greg asked, genuinely interested. He’d never heard any real specifics of Mycroft’s work. This was something different to the murder of the wife of a Russian spy, and he was fascinated.

“Barely,” Mycroft said.

“What happened?”

“How much do you know about the Montenegrin independence referendum?”

Greg almost snorted in amusement. “There’s an independence referendum?” he asked, putting his cutlery down.

Rather than looking exasperated like Sherlock would have done, Mycroft smiled warmly at him. “Shall we move to somewhere a bit more comfortable?”

“Yeah, sure.” Greg stood up and finished his beer.

“Would you like another?” Mycroft asked, walking to the fridge. Greg nodded.

“Yeah, cheers.” He watched as Mycroft retrieved a bottle, opening it quickly. He took hold of the glass in Greg’s hand, his fingers resting on top of Greg’s as he tilted it to the perfect angle, pouring the beverage to leave just the the right amount of head on top. “That was impressive,” Greg said as Mycroft removed his hand, and he could still feel the warmth from his fingers, contrasting with the chill through the glass. Greg couldn’t believe how just the smallest touches left him craving so much more.

“Good,” Mycroft said as he topped up his wine. Greg followed him through to the living room and took his usual spot on the sofa. Mycroft sat in the chair opposite.

Greg smiled. “So. The referendum.”

Mycroft frowned. “You’re truly interested?”

“Yeah, I am. I want to know what happens in your life. So. Day in the life of Mycroft Holmes. Go.”

Mycroft chuckled. “Some background, I feel, is appropriate.”

Deciding Mycroft was unlikely to join him on the sofa, Greg slipped his shoes off, adjusting the cushions against the chair arm and stretching his legs along the length of sofa. Mycroft laughed at him. “Incorrigible,” he smiled, pressing two fingers together under his chin. It took all of Greg’s inner power not to laugh at how Sherlock-like that action was.

Mycroft sipped his wine. “Serbia and Montenegro was, until yesterday, a country formed from the two remaining republics of Yugoslavia, following its break-up in 1992. It was a federation, and later, three years ago, became a state union. The Montenegrin independence referendum has now been held, and the public voted in favour of independence, to each become separate states.”

Greg took a sip of his beer, watching Mycroft intently. He liked how animated his face got when he was explaining. But his hands remained steady. While many people over-gestured while they were speaking, he did so calmly.

“I explained to you how my work was diverging into international matters?” Mycroft asked.

“Yeah, you did,” Greg said.

Mycroft nodded, frowning for a moment. “The process, of course, has not been a simple one. I and a few others have been working alongside the British Europe Minister to ensure it is held correctly and legally, to allow an easy transition if independence was the preferred choice of the electorate. You understand, that if it was to become a new state, the rest of the world must recognise it. The rest of the world must, therefore, recognise its elections to have been legal.”

Greg nodded. “Sure, I get that.”

“There were disagreements over the threshold for independence. One European envoy suggested a 55% majority, with a minimum turn-out of 50%. That was eventually agreed upon, though not without a great amount of work behind the scenes by a number of people.”

“What happened?” Greg asked.

“The referendum was narrowly-won in favour of independence. Those favouring independence were polling at 55.4%. But the head of the referendum commission was unwilling to call it because there were still 19,000 votes disputed.”

“Thats… a lot of votes,” Greg said.

Mycroft hesitated. “Not too many. So, that is the background.”

“Where did you get involved?”

“The country of Montenegro has yet to be recognised because it is yet to formally announce its independence.”

“Why’s it taking so long?”

Mycroft smiled. “At the heart of the matter is a comment from a diplomat, made both in error and stupidity. And someone has to clean up the mess before Montenegro formally announces its independence and the United Kingdom is incapable of recognising it.”

“Some mess,” Greg muttered.

“Quite,” Mycroft agreed. “The specifics of it are-”

“-Classified, I know-”

“-Dull,” Mycroft said.

Greg laughed. “Dull?”

Mycroft smiled. “Yes. I can tell you if you’d like, but it’s tedious. I’m sure I have much better stories.”

Greg smiled at him, relaxing into the sofa. “I think what you do is pretty interesting.”

“You don’t know the half of it.”

“Nah, maybe not. Hey, you’ve never organised a hit, have you?”

Mycroft chuckled. “What did Sherlock say now?”

Greg grinned. “I think he reckons you’re running the whole country single-handedly.”

“Ridiculous,” Mycroft smiled.

“So, when you’ve solved the crisis of Montenegro. What’s next?”

“I’m not sure. I can be juggling two or three items or 30 simultaneously, one day to the next.”

“Anthea’s pretty important then?” Greg asked.

“Crucial,” Mycroft confirmed.

“Where’d you meet her?”

“I’m afraid I can’t divulge that information.”

Greg grinned. “I’m getting used to that.” Greg glanced at his watch. “I should probably be off. I’ve got an early start tomorrow. We’ve tracked down a suspect for one of those cold cases I gave Sherlock.”

“I’m glad he’s been helpful.”

“Yeah, me too.” Greg took a long sip of beer before standing up. Mycroft smiled at him from the chair. “Well, goodnight. Have a good day tomorrow, don’t start any wars or anything.”

Mycroft laughed. “I assure you, that is the least of my concerns.”

Greg laughed. “It worries me that I almost believe that’s true.” He grinned.

“Would you like the car?”

“No, I’ll walk, but thanks. See you sometime. Don’t be a stranger, yeah?”

Mycroft smiled tightly and Greg nodded at him before walking to the door. Part of him wished Mycroft would call him back. He never did, so Greg never turned around. He walked out of the flat. Should have kissed him, should have kissed him, his head chanted. Shut up head, Greg thought to himself. 

 

* * *

 

Nothing was different about June 7, 2006. Greg got up, Greg showered, Greg put on a nicotine patch (29 days down), Greg got dressed and Greg went to work.

It was a pleasant walk. Greg carried his jacket, pondering his lunch options.

He got to the Yard. When Greg got in, he headed straight to his office. He checked the overnight logs. It had been a quiet evening. He hadn’t been left with much paperwork. He checked his diary, his emails (only seven overnight, result). He browsed BBC News, then got up to speak to Sally.

She was on the phone, a stony expression on her face.

“You alright?” Greg mouthed to her, walking over to her desk.

She picked up a pen and scribbled on her notebook as she asked for a telephone number on the phone.

Greg looked at the note.

_Kid’s body, beaten and killed._

Greg closed his eyes, swallowing. Oh God, Christ, no. Please no. Sally looked up at him as she continued to listen on the phone. Greg sunk down into Edmund’s usual chair. He listened as Sally took more details before she hung up.

“The body was discovered during the shift crossover,” she said. “Half our team were there and half of Carter’s.”

“So, who’s got it?”

“We have, sir?”

“Why the bloody hell have we got it?” Greg asked, frowning.

“Because they’re going to bed, sir.”

Greg rubbed his face. “Shit.”

“The body has been taken to Bart’s. Forensics are on the scene, do you want the detai-”

Greg cut her off quickly. “-No. No, I don’t.”

Sally bit her lip. “Carter said if you needed to be taken off this one, he’d lead it for you. He said… He said you’d know why he was making the offer.”

Greg shook his head. He felt sick, the familiar tightness in his chest was almost overwhelming. But no way was Carter taking over. “No, I can do it. I can do it. I just need a minute.” He stood and walked to his office, though his head was spinning. He closed the door and beat his fist against the wall. He closed his eyes. It wasn’t like he’d not come across similar child cases since the first one. Since… since him.

But not one that sounded so similar, just so… Greg swallowed. Sometimes he hated the world with every ounce of his being. He gave himself 10 seconds to calm down, to try and swallow back the sickness he felt in his stomach. He sat down at his desk. And tried to work.

He went through the rest of the day in a daze. It took him half an hour to build the courage to start going through the notes. Another half an hour to text Carter and tell him he and his team would take the case. An hour until he finally had the stomach to look at the crime scene photos.

He was aware Sally was working on the case like she would tackle any other. She was speaking to the family, she had officers out doing jobs. Greg was on some sort of horrible autopilot, where he wasn’t functioning or acting like he should have been. He poured himself a coffee. He genuinely thought he’d got over all of this. It was such a long time ago. He tilted his head back, closing his eyes and rubbing his hands over his face.

Sally walked into his office and closed the door. “You alright, sir?” she asked.

Greg looked up at her. “Not brilliant, but I’ll be much better if we catch the arsehole who did this. Are you alright?”

“Glad I wasn’t on duty.”

Greg nodded. Him too.

“Lestrade, you don’t have to tell me. But what did Carter mean? Why did he offer to take the case?”

“It’s nothing. I’m more than capable of doing it. We need to treat it like any other case.”

“It’s not though, is it?” Sally asked.

Greg shook his head. “Media attention will be massive. And it’s hard to stomach at times. I’m sorry I’ve not been fully with this so far this morning. I’m better now. Where we at?”

Sally presented Greg with all the facts they had so far. The interview with the parents, the CCTV they’d requested which would take a few hours to come through, the evidence Bart’s had pulled together so far.

At 4.55pm, Greg lit a cigarette near the bike rack. He felt some of the tension drain away, just for a few perfect minutes where all that mattered was the nicotine and the way it shut off his brain for a few blissful moments of release.

That would have to be the second Sherlock strolled towards the Yard. He raised his eyebrows at Greg from across the car park, disdain written across his face. Greg knew instantly he’d broken his trust. Greg dropped the cigarette and stomped it out. Sherlock folded his arms.

Greg sighed and walked over. “Look, I’ve had a fucking terrible day,” he said. “Don’t lecture me right now, Sherlock.”

Sherlock eyed him for a few moments before he spoke. “I’m offering to help,” Sherlock finally told him.

Greg nodded and whispered. “Thank you.” Sherlock followed him into the Yard. They sat in silence for the next hour going over the facts. Sherlock left without a word at 6.12pm.

Everything was different about June 7, 2006. Greg left work as late as he could, Greg had three beers in quick succession, Greg had another cigarette (I’m sorry I lapsed, Sherlock), Greg changed into some shorts and a t-shirt and he opened the windows, hoping the wind would blow the thoughts straight out of his head.

He stared out at the street, his arms wrapped tightly over his chest. His head was telling him to go to bed, but he knew what would be haunting his dreams all night.

A knock on the door lifted him from his thoughts, and he frowned, padding over to the door. He opened it and felt his mouth drop when he saw Mycroft there, an umbrella in one hand, a bottle of scotch in the other.

“Good evening,” Mycroft murmured, holding the drink up.

“You didn’t have to,” Greg mumbled, stepping aside to let the other man in. Mycroft leaned his umbrella against the wall and carried the bottle through to the kitchen.

“Nonsense. Sherlock told me you had a cigarette. He was quite unimpressed, I assure you.”

Greg slumped down on the sofa, listening as Mycroft pottered around in his kitchen. He didn’t want company. He really wasn’t in the mood. He automatically lifted his hand as Mycroft handed him the glass and he took a long sip.

Mycroft sat down on the opposite sofa, watching him. “I’m sorry, Greg,” he said.

Greg shook his head, staring at his knees. “Just need to catch them.”

He felt Mycroft’s eyes on him, but he didn’t look up. A few minutes of silence passed between them, in which Greg felt like he was a zoo animal, observed as part of some horrible experiment.

Finally Mycroft spoke. “If you need me to look over the case, ask.”

“And what are you going to do about it, Mycroft?” Greg snapped, looking up at him. “Take it off me? I’m not that fucking incompetent.” Anger pumped through his veins.

“That isn’t what I-”

“-What are you doing here?”

“I heard about your case. I knew it must have affected you.”

“You and your bloody deductions,” Greg muttered, not willing to admit he was enjoying the scotch, even as it burnt the back of his throat. He looked up at Mycroft. The man’s expression hadn’t changed, but he seemed… well, maybe there was a faint trace of concern there, if Greg squinted really hard. He’d brought the scotch over. Hell, he’d brought himself over. “Sorry. I’m just…” Greg shook his head. He didn’t exactly know what he was, except fucking miserable.

“I know,” Mycroft said, compassion in his tone. Greg leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes.

He opened them again quickly, when the images of the crime scene were all he could see. “When it’s a kid, it’s worse,” Greg explained, his voice quiet.

Mycroft nodded. “What can I do?”

Greg shook his head. “Nothing. There’s nothing. It’s just a case me and my team need to solve. Just like every other case.” Greg swallowed. He looked up at Mycroft again. Why the hell was he here? “Is this a friendly visit? Or is this a sex visit? I need to know the difference, because I don’t want to make things awkward.”

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. “I didn’t-”

Greg held his hands up. “-I know. I’ve had a really shit day, Mycroft. And you’re here in that suit. With scotch. And to be honest, I’m not really good company right now if you’re here on a friendly visit.”

Mycroft nodded. “I understand.”

“I’m a bit drunk, I won’t lie.”

“I know.”

Greg swallowed, and looked him up and down. “And I really want you right now.”

Mycroft looked up at him, intense eyes staring into Greg’s soul. He finally replied. “As do I.”

Greg felt his breath catch and he stood up, putting the scotch down on the table between them. He looked at Mycroft, who held his gaze. Greg could feel his heart beating, his skin heating. His mouth was dry. He licked his lips as he looked down at that well-dressed man in front of him. Greg felt the overwhelming urge to smash their lips together. Mycroft’s eyes were wide, assessing, watching.

“Take your tie off,” Greg said firmly. Mycroft’s hands stayed still for a second and Greg was sure he was about to tell him no, before he moved his hands to his tie, slowly loosening it and pulling it free of his collar. “And the jacket,” Greg added.

Mycroft leaned forward as he slipped it off his shoulders. The jacket slid off his shoulders easily, and he placed it down onto the side of the chair. He didn’t look away from Greg for a second. “Waistcoat,” Greg muttered. He bit his bottom lip as he dictated how Mycroft should undress in front of him, amazed he was following the instructions.

Mycroft began to unfasten the buttons. Greg swallowed. The waistcoat was folded and placed on top of the jacket. “Oh fuck,” Greg said as he couldn’t wait any longer and he walked over to Mycroft. He straddled his lap. Mycroft must have anticipated his actions as one arm wrapped around his back immediately. A hand tangled in Greg’s hair. The other ventured under his t-shirt as their mouths slammed together.

Heady. Hard. Heated. Mycroft bit Greg’s bottom lip, Greg moaned, heard it, somewhere around his consciousness. Lost. Just lost in a moment. Needing. Desperately needing.

Mycroft’s nails scratched at Greg’s back. Someone, him, Mycroft, wasn’t sure, was pushing down his shorts, Mycroft’s hand. On his cock. A sharp nip to his neck, a kiss, a bit of tongue. A hard kiss, tongues meeting, teeth clang, shit sorry, my fault.

Greg pulled Mycroft’s shirt free of his trousers. It took a hard tug. He unfastened Mycroft’s belt as quickly as he could, his hands shaking. He dropped it on the floor. Mycroft kissed him hard, Greg groaned into it, leaning into Mycroft’s touch as his hand found a nipple. They kissed like it was a war. Unrelenting and desperate. Neither surrendered.

It was all too much, yet not enough at all. “Bed,” Greg finally muttered, pulling away from Mycroft’s wonderful hands. He slid onto the sofa, before standing up, brushing a hand through his hair. Mycroft was breathing hard and accepted his hand, standing with him.

Swallowing his nerves and the anticipation of what might happen, Greg led him towards the bedroom, his heart thumping in his chest. He lifted a hand to touch the door handle, but he turned, looked at Mycroft, stared at his flushed cheeks. Gorgeous. And he needed it.

Greg let go of the handle, stepped back towards him - that stunning man - and kissed him again, a hand reaching for his arse and grabbing. Mycroft’s arms wound around him, and Greg shuffled backward. Greg found his back flush against the wall. His hands were tangled in Mycroft’s shirt, Mycroft pushing down his shorts and underwear and wrapping a hand around him.

Greg shuddered, a low groan leaving his mouth. He undid Mycroft’s trousers as fast as he could through trembling fingers, pressed his hand against his prick over the silk of his boxers, a wet patch under his thumb. Mycroft’s cock was hot, throbbing. It took all of Greg’s self-control not to come at the feel of Mycroft in his hand. Greg slid his hand inside the fabric, Mycroft gasped.

They kissed. Greg’s lips were swollen and sore, but he kissed like he would die without it. Mycroft’s teeth found his neck. Light traces of stubble rough against the delicate skin, scratching, contrasted with soft lips, wet tongue and their bodies pressed together, like a jigsaw, fitting. Hand around each other’s cock, mouth’s connected, panting, desire, desperation, and God, and fuck and bloody Christ, Greg’s mouth connected to Mycroft’s with frenzied kisses. He needed release, release from everything. The day had been too much, his head was full of screaming and misery. And he was climbing, reaching, peaking, Mycroft’s hand stilling on his cock after he came. Released.

Greg kept up the movement of his hand on Mycroft’s prick, half-unaware of what he was doing as Mycroft’s load spilled over his fingers and his teeth found Greg’s neck. Mycroft’s knees shook and Greg’s arms wrapped around his waist, holding him there. It wasn’t a hug, not really, it was necessary, it was clinging on for dear life as they got their breaths back.

Greg’s heart pounded. He closed his eyes, a blissful fog in his mind as all he could concentrate on was a hot, shuddering body pressed against his.

Greg pressed his forehead to Mycroft’s shoulder and chuckled a little. “So, we didn’t exactly make it to bed,” he muttered, his voice muffled in Mycroft’s shirt.

Mycroft chuckled lightly, his cheek on Greg’s shoulder. Greg tightened his hold on him. Mycroft lifted his head and Greg looked up at him, his face perfectly relaxed. Greg brushed his bruised lips against Mycroft’s in a lazy kiss. Mycroft’s mouth moved against his to lightly kiss the corner of Greg’s lips.

“How are you?” Mycroft asked, pulling back to pull up his trousers. Greg bent down to do the same with his shorts.

The fog was beginning to lift. The stress seeping back inside his pores. His limbs felt heavy.“Like I could probably sleep,” Greg admitted. “So. Thanks. I didn’t think I ever would.”

Mycroft moved to the sofa, taking a sip of the scotch he’d poured Greg. Greg moved and took a seat beside him. Mycroft looked at him. “What happened to make this case so awful?”

“It’s a kid.”

Mycroft looked at him. “No, I mean, what happened to you?” His tone was almost gentle, but not quite.

Greg shook his head. “Nothing.”

“You’ve never lied to me before, Greg. Let’s not start now, shall we?” Mycroft asked, his voice sharp.

Greg looked down at his knees. He took the scotch from Mycroft’s hand and finished it. Greg felt the other man’s eyes on him, not looking away. Greg shook his head. “Fine. There’s stuff. But I can’t talk about it.”

“Have you ever spoken about it?” Mycroft asked.

Oh God no, why would he? “No. I mean, people know about it.”

“Your colleagues,” Mycroft said.

“And Caroline.”

Mycroft nodded.

Greg set the glass down on the table. He couldn’t look at Mycroft. “Look, it was years ago, alright? It was a case, it bothered me, I took some time off, I got over it.”

“Evidently not.”

“Stuff happens to people,” Greg said. “It’s not always good stuff.”

Mycroft nodded. “Mm.”

Greg rubbed his face. “I’m alright.”

“Very well,” Mycroft murmured. “I should leave.”

“Alright,” Greg replied stiffly.

There was a small pause before Mycroft asked: “Will you be okay?”

Greg nodded. He had to be. “Yeah.”

Mycroft stood, putting his tie back on and smoothing down his jacket after he had dressed. He looked at Greg, his eyes drifting over his face and his body. “Sleep in your bed, Greg. Not on the sofa, you’ll give yourself a bad back.” Greg frowned at him. “You always sleep on the sofa when you’re miserable,” Mycroft explained.

“How the hell do you know these things?”

Mycroft just smiled tightly at him. “Goodnight.”

Greg kept frowning but nodded. “Yeah. Night.”

He watched Mycroft walk to the door and he sighed. Mycroft hesitated for a second. Greg tilted his head. “What?” he asked roughly.

He saw Mycroft’s shoulders lift and fall as he took a long breath before speaking. “This cannot continue."

Greg rolled his eyes. “What can’t?”

“Our… arrangement.”

“For God’s sake,” Greg muttered. He leaned forward on the sofa. “And why is that, exactly?”

“It is affecting our working relationship.”

“What working relationship? We don’t work together.”

Mycroft turned round to face him. “It will bother Sherlock.”

“You breathing bothers Sherlock. What’s really the problem?”

“I haven’t had sex with anyone for five years,” Mycroft said plainly. He said it so resolutely, but Greg saw the tension in his jaw. The way he held his chin out, defiantly - a defiant smokescreen for some other emotion.

Greg folded his arms over his chest. “Well, I haven’t had sex with a bloke in nearly 20 years. What’s the problem?”

“You said so yourself, Greg. The lines between friendship and sex are blurred.”

Greg shrugged. “No they’re not. It’s not like we’re falling asleep together.”

Mycroft watched him. “I’m using you, Greg. I have no desire to become emotionally intimate.”

He was using Greg? Wasn’t that ironic when Greg had needed sex with him so much a few moments ago just to make the pain go away. “That’s fine, because I’m using you too,” Greg said evenly.

“Very well,” Mycroft murmured.

“Very well what?”

“If you want to see me, you only need to ask,” Mycroft said, his mouth a cold line.

Greg nodded. “Alright. Likewise.”

“I won’t always be able to accept.”

“Neither will I,” Greg said.

“So, that’s settled.”

“Yup.”

“I will be in contact.”

Greg nodded. “Good. Me too.”

“Goodnight, Greg.”

“Night.”

Mycroft turned and walked out of Greg’s flat. Greg slumped back into the sofa. That was odd. But okay. Arrangement sorted. He stretched out over his sofa and pulled the throw over himself. He’d just rest here, just for a few moments… 


	20. Your Eyes And Mine Looking Away

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You beautiful people JustLookFrightenedAndScuttle, KingTaran, novels and polux left some wonderful comments. I thank you!  
> This chapter continues where the last concluded.

_June, 2006_

Greg woke up with a start at 4.07am, his body coated in sweat and breathing hard. His dream had left him feeling nauseous and he squeezed his eyes shut to try and block it out. The image of that eight year old child was fading now, but he could still feel the trappings of the dream, edging around his consciousness. As Mycroft had promised, his back hurt from lying on the sofa and he was horribly uncomfortable. Groaning, he slid off the chair, wrapping the throw tightly around himself as he shuffled into the bedroom. He slid under the covers but he didn’t want to fall asleep. He didn’t want to see the boy again.

He leaned over and turned the lamp on, rolling his shoulders. He didn’t want the case to affect him like this. He wanted to treat it like he would any other, but it never was. Not just because it was a kid, but because it was likely to have been done by someone close to him. A family member. They couldn’t rule out anyone, not even the parents, even with the interviews they had already carried out.

Greg picked up his phone and put it down again. He was awake now, might as well get up. After showering and dressing he left straight away to go to work.

He told himself he was going to cut himself out of the case. He needed to maintain full professionalism, and that meant not caring about the kid. It meant cutting out the anger he felt and looking at it objectively.

And so he began to watch the CCTV CDs which had been left on his desk.

 

* * *

 

His team started arriving at 7.30am. Sally walked into his office when she got there, bringing him a coffee in the Bunny Suicide mug. Greg glanced at it and couldn’t help his smile as he remembered the last time Mycroft had drunk from it.

“You seem better,” Sally said.

Greg shrugged. “A bit. I’ve been watching the CCTV from the streets around the scene and there hasn’t been any…” He glanced at the computer. His shoulders sunk. “Holy shit.”

Sally walked around to look over his shoulder. Greg heard her sigh beside him. “That’s the mum,” she said. Greg rubbed his head.

“It’s the mum. Has someone checked out her alibi yet?”

Sally shook her head. “The phone number for the friend kept going to voicemail.”

“It’s the mum,” Greg said again, leaning back in his chair. It was surprising in a way, but not unexpected it was a family member. “Do you think the dad knew?”

“No,” Sally said.

“Christ, poor bloke.”

“I’ll put a call into forensics and see what they’ve got from the scene,” Sally told him. “We’ll pick the mum up and bring her in in half an hour.”

Greg smiled gratefully at her. “You’ve been great during this.”

“Let’s just get a charge and conviction and I’ll be happy.”

Greg nodded and rewound the CCTV. “I’ll keep looking at this. There’s a few more streets we might have some video from. I’ll get all the details together for when we question her.”

“You and me?” Sally asked.

Greg nodded. “You and me.”

 

* * *

 

There was never any justice in a case involving the murder of a child. Even with the perpetrator locked away, there was no good there. Just a death, far too soon, and a family torn into a thousand shreds. But wrapping it up brought closure to a difficult situation, and Greg and Sally worked long into the night to get the details together to give to the Magistrates’ Court for the following morning.

By the time the sun rose, the arrest of the mother was all over the front of most of the papers. Greg heard she offered no plea in court, and it would be going to the Crown in the next month or two. By then, Greg knew, they’d have everything they would need to pretty much guarantee a conviction. They were mostly there already, it was just about tying the evidence up in a bow and handing it to lawyers to do their jobs.

Greg pressed a fresh nicotine patch to his arm.

Sorting the case without having a big breakdown felt like an achievement considering how he’d reacted when it had first come up.

The next few days went by without incident. Body-less and quiet, they were days Greg clung to, knowing it could all change very suddenly.

 

* * *

 

Greg was awoken by his phone ringing at 5.54am. It wasn’t an unusual occurrence, but what was unusual was the identity of the caller. Greg rubbed his eyes before answering. “Lestrade,” he said, his voice sounding unusual to his ears, not quite adjusting to being awake.

“Greg, thank you.” Mycroft sounded relieved over the line.

“Are you alright?” Greg asked, rolling over onto his back. His eyes began to adjust to the light.

“Yes. Fine. Unfortunately this is not a social call.” As if it would be a social call at 5.55am. “We have a situation.”

Greg licked his bottom lip. “Sherlock. Is he-”

“Sherlock’s fine,” Mycroft reassured him quickly. “But there has been a break-in at the National Archives at Kew. A team from Scotland Yard is here, however, I would appreciate it if you could cast your eye over the scene.”

Greg frowned. “It’s not really my call, Mycroft. If there’s a team already there then…”

“I’ll smooth it over,” Mycroft said. “Can you come?”

Greg sighed and rolled over in bed. He looked at the time. “Yeah, give me half an hour. Can you get Sergeant Sally Donovan there as well? If I’m on this, I want my team.”

“Certainly. I await your arrival. Thank you.” Mycroft hung up.

Greg groaned and dragged himself out of bed, stumbling over some clothing he’d left on the floor, and making his way to the bathroom. He had no doubt that whatever strings Mycroft was currently pulling, all the puppets would be in place by the time Greg got there.

He showered, trying to rub his drowsiness out of his head. He savoured the hot water before stepping out, shaving and getting dressed. He had a quick slice of toast before getting in his car and driving to Kew.

Outside the Archives were a number of police cars, as well as a few members of the press. Greg got out of the car and walked towards the building, flashing his badge. He was led to a reception area where Anthea was waiting for him. “Detective Inspector,” she said, her face blank. “Follow me and I’ll explain what we’re doing.” Greg stepped beside her, letting her lead him through a room full of bookcases.

“The National Archives is the official archive and publisher for the Government,” Anthea explained. “There are documents dating back more than 1,000 years. It collects digital and paper records. Last night, security cameras were switched off at 2.11am. They were turned on again exactly 20 minutes later. We can’t be sure what was taken yet, but all the evidence points to documents which are not yet available to the public.”

“Secret documents?”

“Unreleased documents,” Anthea corrected. Greg saw Mycroft stood by a wall, watching as officers carried out some forensics tests. Greg waved at him and Mycroft nodded his head. “I’ll leave Mr Holmes to explain everything you need to know,” Anthea said, walking back the way she had come.

Greg strolled over to Mycroft. “Hello.”

“Good morning, Greg. Thank you for coming so swiftly.”

“No problem.” Greg looked around. “What do you need me to do?”

“I want you to run the case.”

“Sure, okay. Any particular reason?”

Mycroft went to speak but at that moment Sally walked over to them, a frown on her face. “What’s going on, Lestrade?” she asked, casting a quick look over at Mycroft.

Greg glanced between them and decided to make the introductions. He decided to hide just how well he knew Mycroft. “Mr Holmes, this is Sergeant Sally Donovan, Sally, this is Mycroft Holmes. He works for the Government.”

“Holmes?” Sally asked. Mycroft held his hand out to her, and she shook it. “Holmes?” she asked again.

“I understand you are acquainted with my brother, Sherlock,” Mycroft said. “I do apologise.”

She laughed a little, still frowning. “Too late for apologies,” she muttered. “Lestrade, what are we doing?”

“We’re taking the case,” Greg said. “I was just finding out some details from Mr Holmes.”

“There is not much to say,” Mycroft said. “But we do believe the documents were classified. I have people working on that particular matter as we speak. Please do your jobs, as you see fit.”

“Are we reporting to you?” Greg asked, frowning.

“No.” Mycroft glanced at Sally. “Detective Inspector, can I take a few moments of your time?”

“Sure.” Greg nodded at Sally and followed Mycroft towards a bookcase. Mycroft glanced around before speaking.

“This is more than an elaborate break-in,” Mycroft murmured, keeping his voice down.

“What d’you mean?”

“I can’t explain it here. Can you come by my office this evening?”

“Which one?”

“The Coeur de Lion Offices.”

“Sure, course I will. So, why did you want me to lead this?”

“Because I trust you,” Mycroft said. “And because our jobs are about to intersect, and I would rather work alongside you than another Inspector.”

Greg nodded. “Okay.”

“I need to get back to work. I’ll see you this evening.”

Mycroft held out his hand and Greg shook it, watching him. He had a feeling the gesture was all for show, but Greg paid it no mind as Mycroft walked away, murmuring “nice to meet you Sergeant Donovan,” as he walked past Sally.

Sally walked towards Greg. “That’s Sherlock’s brother?” she asked, frowning.

“Yup.”

“But. He’s so. Polite.”

Greg grinned. “I know. It’s like they come from different planets.”

“So why is he involved?”

“Government’s worried about the confidential files, I guess,” Greg said. “Time to carry out some interviews. Speak to the security guards, find out who was on duty last night. I need a full timetable of where they’re supposed to be and when.”

 

* * *

 

Greg met with the manager of the Archives, finding out about the security measures and protocols. He and Sally spent the day there, interviewing seven security guards, all of whom had long and distinguished records in various jobs and all seemed devastated it could have happened on their watch.

Greg took a huge number of documents back to the Yard with them, each detailing how files were kept guarded. He paid particular attention to the protection of classified files and priceless documents which were hundreds of years old, as each were the most important to the Archive and therefore the most tightly controlled.

He heard there were some questions being asked on the news about how this could have happened and whether some of the nation’s most important documents were safe after all.

Edmund walked into his office with a box of iced buns and Greg took one from him with a thanks. “I was at court for one of old cold cases today,” Edmund said, sitting across from Greg.

“How’d we do?” Greg asked, sipping his coffee.

“Prosecution lawyer is doing a good job presenting our evidence. I think we’ll get it.”

“Never know with juries,” Greg said, taking a bite of the bun.

“The case is solid, sir.”

“You did a good job on that one,” Greg said, looking up at him. “Look. I know it was disappointing, not to get Sergeant. But if you keep doing stuff like on this cold case, you’ll get there.”

“Sherlock Holmes did all the work, sir.”

“Yeah, but you pulled a case together. You got us the evidence. Sherlock Holmes is a genius, he sees things we don’t. But the police force wouldn’t work if every officer was just like him.” Edmund stayed quiet and Greg turned to the map of the National Archives. He shook his head. “What’s the point of CCTV if someone can find a way of shutting it down? First the Kirkcudbright case and now this one…”

Edmund frowned. “Weird that we have two cases like that at the same time.”

“I know,” Greg said. “I’m not sure how often that happens.”

Edmund shrugged. “Why have we got this one anyway? I don’t understand. It seems too big for us.”

Greg glanced up at him. “Someone has to do it,” he said. “We’ll be working with a lot of other agencies I expect. Depends how secret those documents were.” Greg glanced at the time. “Look, I’ve got to go, I’ve got a meeting to go to. Don’t stay too long tonight, yeah?”

Edmund nodded and stood up. “Sure, sir.”

Greg shut down his computer and frowned. “Ed, is everything alright?”

Edmund nodded. “Course.”

Greg smiled at him and stood up, collecting his phone and wallet. He patted Edmund on the shoulder and held the door to his office open as they both walked out. He strolled to his car, sliding in and turning on the radio.

He found a car parking space not too far from the Coeur de Lion Offices and he found the security card he had been given last time. One flash to the security was all he needed to gain entrance to the building and after a quick walk through the metal detector he was left to his own devices to find Mycroft’s office.

A few of Mycroft’s ‘underlings’ were sat at their desks this time, each typing on computers in resolute silence. One was listening on a phone but not saying a word. They were quite robotic in their actions and although Greg felt their eyes on him, none of them said a word.

Greg knocked on Mycroft’s door, and it was opened a few moments later by Anthea who had a grave expression on her face. “Everything alright?” Greg asked as he looked at her.

“Nothing we can’t handle,” she said, stepping aside to let him into the office. She turned to look at her boss. “I’ll go out and set up a meeting.”

Mycroft nodded and looked up from his laptop and at Greg for the first time. “Do come in,” he said. His face appeared tight and drawn.

“What’s going on?” Greg asked as he took a seat opposite. Mycroft waited until Anthea had shut the door before speaking.

“We found out what files are missing,” Mycroft explained.

“Is it bad?” Greg asked.

Mycroft hesitated. “Yes, I suppose so. And strange. Would you like a drink?”

“I wouldn’t say no to a coffee actually,” Greg said. Mycroft typed something onto his computer.

“It’s on it’s way,” Mycroft said. “First, please tell me about your day. What did you find out?”

“Not much,” Greg conceded. “We interviewed the security guards and to be honest, all of them seemed really affected by it all. You get a feel for people sometimes, and they seemed to be feeling guilty for something it doesn’t look like they had a lot of control over. They weren’t told the CCTV had gone out. And they were all in the right places during their shifts.”

“Can you work out who turned off the cameras?”

Greg shook his head. “We’re looking into where it’s all controlled and who has access to it.”

Mycroft pressed his lips together and looked up as a man walked in with a tray. It was beautifully laid out, with a stainless steel cafetiere, a cup and saucer, a small jug and a sugar pot. The man laid it down on the table. “Shall I pour, sir?” he asked.

“No, that’s quite alright,” Mycroft said. “Thank you.”

Greg thought the man almost bowed his head before he scurried out of the room. “That’s amazing,” Greg said, looking at the neatly laid out tray. Mycroft smiled and pressed down the plunger of the cafetiere.

“You will have to tell me what you think of the coffee. It’s a new blend we have not had in the office before,” Mycroft told him as he took control over pouring their drinks. Mycroft had chosen a tea.

Greg accepted the mug and inhaled the coffee scent. It was rich and bitter and heavenly. “I don’t think I’ll ever be able to enjoy coffee again after this,” Greg muttered.

Mycroft smiled at him and sipped his tea. “The files were classified,” he said. The stony look returned to his face.

“How bad is it?” Greg asked.

“The documents in themselves are not particularly interesting. I don’t think their release would lead to any particular embarrassment.”

“Then what’s weird about it?” Greg asked.

Mycroft took a long pause before speaking. “The meeting in question was the first Government meeting I ever attended.”

Greg looked up at him. “That is a bit weird.”

“Yes,” Mycroft agreed. “I am not on a Government salary, Greg. I am an employee, officially, of MI5. And so my name has never been in the public domain before.”

Greg frowned. “Never?”

“No. What interest is there in a civil servant in the Department of Transport?”

“I take your point,” Greg said. “But there are a lot of people who know you, surely?”

“Yes, but they don’t often appreciate my full range of responsibilities.”

“What was the meeting?” Greg asked.

“The consideration of the threat to the United Kingdom if it were to engage in patrolling no-fly zones in Iraq.”

Greg frowned. “That was your first meeting?”

“I was there not as a Government official, but as someone with experience both in MI5 and MI6. The meeting itself was primarily looking at potential outcomes and risks. We were not condoning or confirming a particular military strategy but rather doing mathematics.”

“Maths?”

“Probability,” Mycroft corrected.

“Well, I can see why people would be interested in reading about it,” Greg said. “People talk about the Iraq war a bit.”

“Yes, I suppose the idea a meeting happened at all would be of interest. My recollection, however, is that much of the meeting was unrecorded. It was not an official gathering. There was an agenda and a set of minutes, but they were not comprehensive. My name will, however, be on them.”

“In what job?” Greg asked.

“What do you mean?”

“How are you listed? As an expert or what?”

“Oh. I believe I was cited as an adviser on national and international security matters. Not even regarded as an expert.” Mycroft looked put out at this.

“Is it bad? If your name gets thrown up?” Greg asked.

“In the short-term I very much doubt it. It is the mid-term and long-term which concerns me.”

“Do you think that file was picked on purpose?”

“Almost certainly. It was in a large box containing minutes from other similar meetings. It was the only one taken. When given the opportunity to sell a number of documents to the national papers, wouldn’t you take more than one?”

“Yeah, I would,” Greg agreed, leaning on the desk.

“Exactly.”

Greg frowned, tapping a finger on the table.

“It will be leaked,” Mycroft said. “I imagine it will be put onto the internet and seized upon by whichever paper pays the most and they will claim they found it for themselves.”

“It might not be a big deal. You’re just a name.”

“Perhaps,” Mycroft said. “It’s impossible to be certain.”

“We’ll keep plugging away our end. We’ve got loads of leads to chase at the moment.”

“Anthea will keep you up to date with what we unearth,” Mycroft said, sipping his tea. “I would prefer if you don’t share the nature of the document with your colleagues just at present. It is best for all concerned if we don’t share how closely we are working together.”

Greg nodded. “That’s fine.” He took a long sip of his coffee, savouring its rich flavour. Mycroft was looking at his laptop. “How late are you working tonight?” Greg asked.

“Quite a while yet,” Mycroft said. “The break-in took priority this morning, but it’s thrown everything else off schedule.”

“So, what do we do now? Wait and see what happens?”

“Yes, I’m afraid so. It will be published. It’s about waiting for when and where. This theft isn’t just about who. It is about why.”

Greg nodded. “Yeah, I get that,” he said, finishing his drink. “I’ll leave you to it.”

Mycroft smiled tiredly at him. “I hope to finish work at a reasonable time on Friday.”

Greg frowned at him for a second. “Friday? You want to do something?”

“Perhaps,” Mycroft said.

Greg smiled and stood up, putting his mug back onto the tray. “Sounds good, if you’re free. Just let me know, yeah?”

Mycroft nodded.

“Don’t worry, okay?” Greg said as he reached the door. “I’m sure it won’t be a disaster, whatever happens.”

Mycroft smiled tightly at him. “Goodnight, Greg.”

“Night, Mycroft,” Greg smiled and walked out of the office. Anthea glanced up at him as he walked out and gave him a once over before returning to her phone. Greg nodded at her before walking down the stairs and leaving the offices.

He drove home, thinking about what Mycroft had told him. He didn’t think he completely understood the magnitude of the document or what it meant for Mycroft, and the man certainly hadn’t seemed like he was in a mood to explain. He’d been perfectly civil actually, but there was a tension on his face which made Greg uncomfortable. Mycroft himself didn’t seem to know what the outcome would be of the document’s publication. And his uncertainty over why it had happened bothered Greg more than he wanted to let on.

He didn’t like seeing Mycroft unsure about anything. He was usually so certain, like he’d weighed up every outcome. He always seemed to know what was going to happen next, whether it was Greg kissing him, or the result of a referendum.

Greg got into bed, his mind racing but he somehow managed to drift off to sleep.

 

* * *

 

Greg wanted to do everything he could to help Mycroft, which is why he got to work early to start assessing the 24 hours of CCTV footage they’d pulled from the inside and outside of the building. He also had pages of security notes to plough through.

An email from Sally, sent from her home address, appeared on his computer. It contained only a link and a quick message saying ‘Here we go. Read this.’

 

_A SECRET meeting on threats to the United Kingdom if it were to go to war with Iraq was organised TWO YEARS before the military operation even began, confidential documents leaked onto the internet show today._

_Among other details, The Daily Mail can exclusively reveal how:_

_* Experts believed the probability of an ATTACK on the United Kingdom if it created a no-fly zone over Iraq was 68 per cent._

_* Intelligence and security experts briefed back-bench ministers on the risk of TERRORISM in the United Kingdom if it followed the United States’ plan to create a no-fly zone._

_* The likelihood of SUCCESS during a war was judged to be only 32 per cent._

_* The Prime Minister WAS NOT informed of this meeting, which was held in secret in a Whitehall office._

_The meeting was held in December 2001, where members of MI5, MI6, civil servants and ministers sat to discuss the probability of an attack to the United Kingdom if it went to war with Iraq._

_The document - stolen from the National Archives at Kew two days ago - has been leaked onto the internet where it is publicly available for download._

_Put onto a website called the MORnetwork, the document reveals discussions on the war had been taking place years before the United Kingdom officially announced it would send troops to Iraq._

_A Government source exclusively told the Mail: “This document reveals discussions took place outside the public domain of Parliament._

_“The document shows unelected officials were responsible for assessing the risk of attack._

_“Unelected officials were tasked with assessing how likely British citizens were to being victims of a terrorist attack in a secret meeting not even senior ministers - including the Prime Minister - were aware of.”_

 

Greg chewed his lip as he read the story. The headline was big and brash, with STATE SECRETS REVEAL WAR COVER-UP making a big impact on the front page. But Greg felt the story wasn’t an easy one to understand. So what if the secret services were holding meetings? Surely their job was to assess and inform the Government on potential risks? And surely the information was eventually passed onto the Prime Minister anyway?

There was no mention of Mycroft, and Greg hadn’t expected there would be.

But what the hell was the MORnetwork? Greg knew he needed computer experts better than him to figure it out, and the case was bigger than him. Indeed, once his team had sorted through the cameras and everything to come up with a way the break-in might have occurred, he expected it would be passed onto the secret services to figure out what the MORnetwork was. They had the technology to trace it.

Another email popped up.

 

From: Holmes, Mycroft  
Subject: Story

Dear Greg,  
I do not know if you have seen this story: http://www.thedailymail.co.uk/state_secrets_reveal_war_cover_up.htm  
The investigation will be handled from my office. I would request you send all your files to Anthea.  
I apologise profusely for getting you involved.  
Anthea will visit the Yard later today to take your documents. I wish I could come myself, but I will be in briefings all day. I will do my very best to explain when I see you next.  
I hope to still be available on Friday. I hope to see you then.  
Kindest regards,  
Mycroft Holmes.

 

Greg sighed. It wasn’t unexpected. And to be honest, Greg felt over his head. He was happy to hand this one over, and that made a change.

 

To: Holmes, Mycroft:  
Subject: Re: Story

Hi Mycroft,  
No worries. If you need anything, drop me a line or give me a call. I’ll be in the office all day (unless there’s a murder, obviously).  
I’ve got Friday off so let me know,  
Cheers,  
Greg

 

Greg started collecting the paperwork together. He was concerned. Concerned about Mycroft, and about something else, but he didn’t know what it was. He had a strange sense of foreboding lurking on the edge of his subconscious.

He wouldn’t describe himself as someone who over-thought an issue. He took the pieces together bit by bit as they came, rather than considering what other pieces could emerge in the future. And so all he saw was the break-in, the theft and the leak. But there was more to it, and Mycroft’s expression yesterday and email today told him all he needed to know about the possible threat of something bigger.

Something above him, that was for sure. And maybe something even bigger than Mycroft, or certainly something he wouldn’t be able to get a handle on.

Anthea said very little when she got to the office an hour later. She handed Greg a piece of paper to confirm he was to hand everything over to her. Greg asked her if she needed to wipe his computer and she told him no, without an explanation. Before she left she looked at him.

“I’m very sorry we brought you into this, Detective Inspector,” she said.

“It’s alright,” Greg said.

She nodded at him before leaving with the files. Greg sent an email around his team to explain in light of the leak and the nature of the file, the case was being taken over by another investigating team. He left the email deliberately vague.

None of his team questioned him on it, much to his surprise. Instead they seemed relived it was gone and they could get back to focusing on what they did best: murder.

And there was plenty of that to go around.

 

* * *

 

 

In the evening he found an envelope on his mat. He opened it. His divorce had been confirmed. He read the few words enclosed on the letter and ripped it up before throwing it away.

 

* * *

 

Greg arrived at Mycroft’s office on the Friday incredibly hungry. He was let in without a fuss at the door and made his way up the stairs. He wore a white shirt with some jeans and was definitely looking forward to seeing where Mycroft had chosen for them to eat that evening. He expected it would be outlandishly expensive, but worth every penny.

He knocked on Mycroft’s door and heard the ‘yes’ call come from inside. As Greg entered, Sherlock was the first person he saw, stood behind Mycroft’s chair. Mycroft looked up from the laptop screen and murmured a ‘good evening’ by way of a greeting.

Greg frowned at them and Sherlock ignored him entirely. “What’s going on?” he asked.

“We will be leaving shortly,” Mycroft told him. “But I need to show you something first.”

Greg nodded. “Okay.”

“Would you like a drink?”

“No, I’m alright.”

Mycroft nodded at him and Greg walked around to stand behind Mycroft. Sherlock was tapping avidly at the keyboard. “What’s this?” Greg asked, peering at the map.

“This is the National Archives on the night of the break in,” Mycroft said, pointing to a dot on the screen. “Move, Sherlock,” he said. Sherlock frowned and skulked to the other side of the desk, slumping down into the chair. Greg leaned on the desk. Mycroft pressed a few buttons. “These green lines show the CCTV camera network, stretching across London. Two minutes later…” Mycroft pressed a button and some of the lines turned red. “The power was turned off here,” he said, pointing to a tiny building on the map.

“What is that?” Greg asked.

“It’s a house containing three flats,” Mycroft said. “It’s deserted.”

“So the cameras were turned off from that house?”

“Hacked,” Sherlock said. “They were hacked into and switched off.”

Mycroft brought up a new document – CCTV images. Greg frowned. He knew that room. “That’s the Kirkcudbright study. How the hell did you get that?” Greg asked, his voice raising slightly. Greg had seen this video a number of times. Hadrian Kirkcudbright reaches for his pen, looks at his desk. The camera goes blank as the power is cut. “You shouldn’t have this,” Greg said. “This is crime scene evidence for God’s sake.”

Sherlock snorted from his seat and Mycroft raised one questioning eyebrow at him. “Mycroft is accumulating power by the day, haven’t you realised that yet, Inspector?” Sherlock questioned, an amused smile on his face.

“Be quiet, Sherlock,” Mycroft said. He brought up another map. “Here is the same map, the moment the cameras were switched off in the Kirkcudbright household. I need to zoom out, I’m afraid.”

He reduced the image, showing more of London. Greg could see the green lines linking the National Archives to the house where the cameras were hacked. Mycroft pressed a button and yellow lines stemmed from the Kirkcudbright estate. And then he pressed a button. And a single red line linked the Kirkcudbright building to the same house.

“Jesus,” Greg muttered, staring at the screen. “You’re making this up. They’re linked?”

“Yes,” Mycroft said.

“It’s not a coincidence?”

“No,” Mycroft agreed.

Greg continued to stare at the screen. “The MORnetwork. Whatever that is.”

“Yes,” Mycroft said. “I have the best people working on the problem as we speak.”

Greg shook his head, standing up straight and leaning against the wall. He nudged the portrait of the Queen with his head, but didn’t bother trying to straighten it. “How the hell did you get the Kirkcudbright CCTV?” Greg questioned. He was angry. He didn’t want to be, but he was, because it was his case and people not in the police shouldn’t have access to it. This bizarre link between the Government and the Yard was wrong. The Government should not be interfering in a case like this.

Of course Mycroft was more than a Government official, he was a spy or something like that, but despite that, despite that, it was all wrong.

“The how and the why is irrelevant. But this is not a mere coincidence, however you assess the problem,” Mycroft informed him.

Greg’s stomach rumbled. He patted it awkwardly.

Mycroft closed down the lid of his laptop, leaning back into his chair. “We have a mutual problem,” he said. “You need to find a killer and I need to find a thief of classified documents.” Greg walked around to the other side of the room and began pacing. Mycroft was watching him, while Sherlock sat disinterested in his chair. “Are you ready to go to dinner?” Mycroft asked him.

Greg frowned. “I guess so,” he muttered.

“We can discuss this tomorrow.” Mycroft stood up. “Sherlock, will you be joining us?”

Sherlock stared at him. “Joining you? Both? At dinner?”

“You are more than welcome,” Mycroft said.

“Not a chance,” Sherlock said, getting out of his seat. “I have far better things to do than watch you both…” He pulled a face, “do whatever it is you do.”

“We don’t do anything,” Greg protested.

Sherlock grabbed his phone from Mycroft’s desk. “Mycroft, instruct your driver to take me home.”

Mycroft stared at him for a few long moments before picking up his phone and requesting a driver take Sherlock back to his flat. Greg watched as Sherlock left, his coat billowing behind him.

Greg folded his arms as Mycroft took his laptop and locked it away in a drawer. “Stop looking so angry, Greg,” Mycroft said. “I’m not taking the Kirkcudbright file off you. You will be able to solve it without the MORnetwork link. I just wanted to impress upon you the importance of us working together on this.”

“Consider me pressed upon,” Greg muttered. Mycroft looked hard at him, raising his eyebrows. Greg pointed at him. “Don’t look at me like that.” Mycroft looked at the portrait of the Queen and straighted it before walking to the door and holding it open. Greg rolled his eyes as he walked through it. “I’m warning you, Mycroft, piss me off again tonight and you can pay for the very expensive lobster I’m going to order.” His remarks caught the attention of one or two of Mycroft’s minions who probably had never seen a man mutter to Mycroft in that way in their whole working lives.

Greg followed Mycroft silently out of the building and slid into the car. Greg turned and looked at him. Oh, if looks could kill… “What was that?” Mycroft questioned through gritted teeth.

“It was a comment directed at the fact that you walk around like you can do whatever you want. And maybe you can, I don’t know. But I’m not going to sit there and say it’s okay for you to control the universe, because it’s not.”

“Don’t be prone to such hyperbole,” Mycroft hissed.

Greg snorted. “Me? Says Mr ‘my name isn’t in the public domain’ Holmes.”

“It is a matter of national security.”

“Your name is a matter of national security?”

“Yes,” Mycroft spat.

Greg laughed and shook his head. “You are so full of yourself.” Mycroft continued to glare at him. Greg raised his eyebrows challengingly back. “What?” Greg asked. “Are you going to have me sacked for standing up to you in front of your minions?”

“Don’t be so ridiculous,” Mycroft muttered.

“That’s exactly what you think, isn’t it? That me and those people, we’re all ridiculous because we’re not as smart as you are.”

“You’re all people, Greg,” Mycroft spat back. “And you all live in the world so obliviously. You don’t see anything. You walk around with your mouths open like gormless apes.”

Greg folded his arms. “Didn’t mind having your cock in my open, gormless mouth though, did you?”

Mycroft’s cheeks flushed a bit. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Nothing,” Greg said. “Except you’re not so un-human as you like to make out. Your ‘I’m better than you’ routine doesn’t wash with me.”

Mycroft’s lips formed a thin line, his eyes dark with unspoken anger. Greg unclenched his fist. He began to count down in his head, taking long deep breaths. 10. He’s a bastard. 9. Fuck, I could kill him. 8. So bloody pompous. It’s a bit sexy. 7. Christ, I hate that. 6. Hate him. 5. Chill out, Greg. 4. No point being pissed off. 3. Could get laid if you chill out. 2. Sex is good. 1. Calm down. Now. 0.

Greg let out a long breath, allowing the tension to leave his body. Mycroft, who was still staring daggers at him, began to frown, as though confused at Greg’s reaction. “So where we going for dinner?” Greg asked, looking out of the window.

He saw Mycroft’s reflection in the car window, his lips apart in confusion. “Dinner?” he asked stupidly.

Greg turned to grin at him. “Yeah, dinner. I’m starving. Or did you miss my stomach growling back there?”

“You’re… not still angry?” Mycroft asked hesitantly.

“Oh, I’m furious,” Greg said. “Figured a bottle of wine would cheer me up though. A good one, none of that Pizza Express crap.” Mycroft continued to frown. Greg smiled. “C’mon. Let’s have dinner. Night off from murder and national security. What do you say?”

Mycroft glanced to Greg’s side. “We have arrived,” he murmured. Greg looked out of the window and grinned.

“Brilliant. I can’t wait.” He got out of the car, and Mycroft elegantly rose from the other side, an amused smirk on his face. Greg laughed and waited for Mycroft to walk around to join him on the pavement.

“You are quite remarkable,” Mycroft murmured as he stepped beside him.

“Is it my amazing good looks or sparkling personality?” Greg asked, grinning.

“Neither,” Mycroft said. “It is that I have absolutely no idea what on earth you’re going to do next.”

Greg chuckled and held the door to the restaurant open, letting Mycroft lead the way towards the maître d. They were shown to a table in the corner and Mycroft wasted no time in placing their wine order. Greg smiled across the table at him. Mycroft still looked sceptical. “What’s up?” Greg asked.

“It’s been a long week,” Mycroft replied.

“Tired?”

“No.”

“You’re like me,” Greg said, and Mycroft stared at him like such a thing was not possible. “You don’t switch off,” Greg explained and Mycroft’s face softened as he looked down at his menu.

“It’s impossible.”

“I know,” Greg said.

“The noise,” Mycroft murmured, pressing three fingers to his head. Greg watched him.

“I thought you delegated your thoughts or something?” Greg asked him.

“Yes, usually. There’s been a lot happening at once.”

“How’d you switch off?” Greg questioned.

“I don’t.”

“What about when you’re listening to music or reading?”

“I rarely get the chance to,” Mycroft admitted.

“So, you just… spend every minute thinking?”

Mycroft’s face flushed a bit. “I find our… sexual activities help.”

Greg grinned a bit, looking down at his menu. “Oh good. Here I was thinking I needed to improve my technique.”

“No,” Mycroft murmured, looking down at his own menu. Greg risked a glance at him before looking at the options.

“Three savoury courses?” he asked.

“Well, you are hungry,” Mycroft replied.

The waitress brought over the wine and Mycroft did the honours of tasting it before she poured it. She left the bottle on the table before asking if they were ready to order.

Greg looked down at the menu. “The quail egg for one, the mackerel for second, and… Hm. Lamb or beef?”

“The lamb,” Mycroft said.

“Lamb,” Greg agreed, smiling at her.

“The salad, the langoustine and the lamb also,” Mycroft said, handing her their menus. She smiled and walked off. Greg sipped his wine, closing his eyes for a few brief seconds to savour it. He wasn’t always a wine drinker. But when Mycroft was buying him bottles like this, he was never going to say no.

Greg smiled at him, leaning on the table. He frowned. Elbows on tables. Wasn’t there a rule about that? He sat up again and fidgeted. Mycroft was watching him, an amused smile on his face. Greg grinned and sipped more of his wine. “I’ve never been to restaurants like this.”

“Does it bother you?” Mycroft asked.

“What?”

“These walls, this food. These… people, many of them with more money than sense?”

“No,” Greg said. “No, it’s fine. It’s their money.”

“It used to bother you.”

“Yeah, it did.” Greg shrugged one shoulder. “When you grow up with nothing you forget that some people didn’t.”

Mycroft eyed him for a few moments before picking up his wine and drinking from it. “You’re claustrophobic,” he remarked. “What happened?”

“First, tell me how you know,” Greg said, shuffling in his chair.

“The desk in your office used to be on the other side of the room,” Mycroft said. “It faced the wall. The floor has light patches where the table legs were once, which shows how the office was laid out for many years. And where you would have sat, had you kept the furniture as it was, you would have been facing away from the door. The table was moved very recently, when you were first promoted. Because you need to see your escape route. You have never once taken the lift at Crusader House.”

“I didn’t know there was one,” Greg said.

“Nonsense. I live almost at the very top. Most people would have asked.”

“It’s not a happy story,” Greg said.

“The stories behind why people have phobias rarely are.”

Greg nodded briefly before speaking. “It was one of the first foster homes I actually have a memory of. They had an older kid, maybe 12 or 13 or something. He didn’t like me much. Anyway, we were playing this game on a single bed. And for whatever reason, I had to go under the covers. But he covered the top of it with his body so I couldn’t get back out. And the covers were so tightly packed in at the end that I couldn’t get out at the sides. And the kid, y’know, he didn’t know how scary I found it, being stuck. I felt like I was drowning, I guess. I was small and the bed felt massive. And then, a bit after I got adopted by the Lestrades, I went on holiday with them to see some of dad’s family. We went swimming in this outdoor lake. And, dad’s brother. It was just a joke, and he pushed my head under but…” Greg trailed off, taking a sip of his water.

“It’s suffocating,” Mycroft finished for him.

Greg nodded. “Yeah. I avoided lifts and stuff ever since. Even the tube, when it’s busy, I’d rather walk.”

Mycroft stayed quiet for a few seconds and Greg stared at his glass. He wasn’t sure he had ever really spoken about that before, and now Mycroft was just being so quiet and then… then Mycroft spoke. “A boy held my head under water in a swimming class when I was 12.”

Greg glanced at him. “You don’t take the lift in Crusader House either,” he murmured, understanding.

“Correct,” Mycroft said.

“That’s how you knew,” Greg said. “It wasn’t just because I moved my desk around. It’s because you would have done the same thing.”

Mycroft nodded. “Yes.”

Greg offered him a half smile and Mycroft smiled warmly back. Greg grinned and looked up as the waitress brought them their first course. He started tucking in straight away, making a delighted sound. Mycroft was watching him, not yet beginning his food. “Is it to your liking?” he asked.

“It’s amazing,” Greg said. “Never had an egg which tasted like this one before.”

“It’s quail,” Mycroft said.

“It’s just a nice-tasting egg,” Greg grinned, gulping down his wine and topping his glass up. Mycroft had hardly touched his, but Greg added more to his glass anyway.

Mycroft chuckled before starting his own food. Greg chewed his down quickly, making delighted noises as he ate. He was so hungry and it was so flipping good. Greg finished his starter first, ready and waiting for the next course. He watched Mycroft eat. He made precise cuts of his food, not cutting the next part until the mouthful was gone. Greg smiled to himself and enjoyed his glass of wine, looking around at the other customers.

“So how many people have you told about your claustrophobia?” Greg asked.

“You’re the first,” Mycroft replied, finishing his food.

“I’m honoured then. So, I can’t imagine you as a kid.” Mycroft looked amused. “What did you want to be when you were growing up?”

“A veterinarian,” Mycroft told him.

Greg grinned. “A vet?”

“Yes. And yourself?”

“A footballer. What about Sherlock?”

“A pirate,” Mycroft said, and he smiled at that, sipping his wine.

Greg laughed. “Yeah, I can imagine that. How many years are between you two?”

“Seven.”

“What was Sherlock like as a kid?”

“Ghastly,” Mycroft said. “Our parents had no idea what had happened.”

Greg laughed and sipped his drink as the dishes were cleared away. “Speaking of Sherlock. He told me you have his violin.”

“Yes,” Mycroft said. “It would have been stolen within moments of him moving into that horrendous flat of his.”

“Do you play anything? Any special talents?”

“The piano and the cello. But Sherlock possesses a natural gift.”

Greg frowned a little. “I’ve never seen a piano in your flat.”

“I never enjoyed it,” Mycroft said.

“You like reading though?”

“I do, when I have the time.”

“Do you have a favourite book?

“The Turn Of The Screw by Henry James.” Mycroft smiled wistfully. “As a child, I was both terrified and intrigued by it. As an adult, I see the different interpretations, the difficulty in determining the exact evil he was hinting at. He didn’t write about ghosts who slashed and killed. And somehow that was far more horrifying.”

Greg smiled, hanging on every word. He’d never heard Mycroft talk so earnestly about something. Something he enjoyed and loved. Mycroft ducked his head. “Apologies,” he murmured.

“No,” Greg said quickly. “No, I could listen to you talk about that all night.”

The waitress brought over their second courses and Mycroft smiled tightly at her. Greg watched him. “You okay?” he asked. Mycroft nodded. “It’s alright,” Greg said, cutting into his fish. “I’m not going to start telling people about you. I mean, who would I tell?”

Mycroft smiled slightly.

They ate in near silence through the course, listening as the restaurant’s hired musician played. Mycroft murmured the name of each piece as he changed from one composition to another.

Greg sat back in his seat, relaxing into the atmosphere. He topped up their wine. “We’re going to need another bottle,” he said. Mycroft smiled at him, a real, genuine thing that had Greg smiling even wider in response. “How many times have you eaten here then?” Greg asked.

“This is the first,” Mycroft said. “It was recommended to me.”

“Well I recommend it right back.”

“I’m glad. How are you enjoying being a Detective Inspector?”

“Love it,” Greg said. “I have a great team, it’s interesting. I’m always busy.” He grinned sardonically. “Sometimes a bit too busy, but I remember to sleep sometimes.”

Mycroft chuckled. “That does sound familiar.”

“It’s changed a lot since I started though.”

“How so?”

“Government messing around mostly. The bottom line is always more cops on the streets. That’s what we all want. But it seems like every year we get more and more paperwork. And when there’s less cops on the streets and crime goes up, people, rightly, complain. So what do they do? Invest in more policemen and more paperwork. And loads of it is arse-covering in case someone puts in a complaint about something. Sally Donovan was just promoted. She’s a brilliant copper. She’s smart, street-savvy. She’s got everything you need. And I want to help bring up a new young policeman or woman to be just like her. But we don’t have the money to do it. So we’re a man down. There’s only one thing I’ve got going for me that the other DIs don’t.”

“And what is that?”

“Your brother.”

Mycroft smiled. “I’m sure that isn’t always an advantage.”

Greg laughed. “You’ve got that right. He’s bloody lucky he met me. He’d have his arse in jail by now, I reckon. Well, unless you’d have bailed him out, I guess.”

Mycroft smiled. “I am truly grateful he met you.”

“You’re grateful you met me too, right? I mean, who would you have called after that break-in at the Archives?”

Their main courses were put in front of them and Mycroft asked for a second bottle of wine for the table. Greg looked down at his lamb. “This was a great choice. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“No, Mycroft. Really, for bringing me here. Thank you.” Mycroft looked at him, his lips parted in mild surprise. “I mean,” Greg continued. “I was so hungry I’d have been happy if you took me to McDonalds.”

Mycroft laughed and began cutting into his potatoes. “I’ve never had the pleasure.”

Greg laughed heartily. “What a shock that is,” he grinned. “You’re not missing out.” Greg took a bite of his lamb. “Jesus. I’m in food heaven.”

“Have you any plans for the rest of the week?”

“Nope. A few days off work, and I’m playing football on Tuesday night assuming nothing massive happens. And you?”

“A few days abroad.”

“Sun, sea and sand?”

“Conference rooms and long meetings.”

Greg smiled sympathetically. “You work too hard.” Mycroft raised an eyebrow at him. Greg laughed. “Alright, pot, kettle, I get it. But when was the last time you had a holiday?”

“When was the last time you had a holiday?”

“I had a week off a few months ago.”

“And what did you do during your week off?” Mycroft asked him.

Greg frowned a bit and rubbed his face. “I was looking at cases.”

“You should go on a date, Greg,” Mycroft said, watching him.

“Date?”

“Yes. I’m sure there are plenty of men and women who would enjoy time in your company.”

“I’m sure there are, but I’m not interested.”

“Why?”

“I’m not lonely or anything.” Greg forced a smile. “You trying to get me out of your hair?”

Mycroft looked at him for a long moment and Greg was sure he was going to say yes. After all, this didn’t seem like an arrangement Mycroft was looking to keep forever. And why would he? He was a bit out of Greg’s league anyway, with the posh dinners and the fancy flat.

“No,” Mycroft finally said, his voice low. “But this will not go on indefinitely. I would request you do not start caring, Greg.”

“Caring? For you?”

Mycroft nodded.

“Mycroft, I’m not going to fall for you for God’s sake.” Mycroft frowned and pushed a piece of meat with his fork. Greg swallowed, his face flushing. “Fuck, that came out wrong. I don’t mean I _couldn’t_ fall for you. Because Christ, if I could get past your armour then I’m sure I could pretty easily. But I know where I stand and so do you and we’re friends. I know that, and you know that, and I’m not going to let sex turn into something more. If I think it’s going that way then I’ll stop.”

The light piano music was the only thing Greg could hear as he fidgeted in his chair. Mycroft was avoiding his eyes. Greg put his knife and fork down and watched Mycroft’s expression as he appeared to wrestle with the words. Greg nudged his arm with his hand. “Mycroft? Are you going to reply to me anytime soon?” he asked.

“I doubt it,” Mycroft replied.

“Friends, Mycroft. We’re here tonight as friends. And some sort of weird colleagues or something.”

“Sex confuses matters.”

“Then let’s stop having sex.” Greg sort of regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth.

Mycroft looked at him surprised. “Very well,” he murmured.

Greg nodded. “So, now that’s sorted.” Greg finished his food in silence, savouring his wine. Mycroft seemed to still be avoiding his eyes. Greg watched him. He must drive Mycroft mad, he realised. The man was so ordered, so perfectly in control that having Greg rush into his life with his bluster and his candidness probably threw him right off kilter. And although he said Greg was ‘extraordinary’ and ‘remarkable’ it wasn’t necessarily a compliment. Because while Greg surprised Mycroft and he loved doing it, he realised at that moment Mycroft didn’t do surprises. Greg realised at that moment his impulsiveness - the very thing which kept Mycroft on his toes - was also the very thing which made him uncomfortable and unsure. And Greg didn’t like the idea of doing that to him one bit.

Greg’s personal life was lost in a world of reckless abandon. Pick something up, throw it away and find something new. While Mycroft’s life was built on steady, solid walls which stood in the same position with an unending permanence. Mycroft spent his life attempting to control the uncontrollables. And Sherlock was probably the most uncontrollable of all. And the image of Mycroft and Sherlock’s childhood clicked into place. And who ever said Mycroft, it isn’t your fault your brother is a druggie? Who ever said Mycroft, it’s not your fault your brother is heartless and uncooperative?

It was right to end their ‘arrangement’, Greg realised suddenly. Because Greg would fall if given the chance. While at the moment he was keeping his heart tightly locked away, he wouldn’t - couldn’t - do it forever. And if given a few inches into Mycroft’s life he would fall. And he wasn’t sure he’d be able to claw his way back up again.

No more sex. It was definitely for the best.

Greg smiled at Mycroft and topped up his glass. “It’s alright, you know?”

“Mm?”

“Whatever is going on in your head right now. It’s all okay.”

Mycroft nodded.

“And, look, contact me whenever you want. Whatever it is, whatever time it is. If you need me, just tell me.”

“I cannot possibly ask that of you,” Mycroft said.

“Yes you can, Mycroft. Because who do we have otherwise?”

“You should have more friends,” Mycroft said.

“But I don’t.”

“I cannot understand why not.”

Greg raised his eyebrows. “You’re Mr Deduction. I’m sure you’ve come up with some big conclusion based on the way I write my name or something.”

Mycroft pressed his lips together. “I haven’t given it much thought. But it must be living in the care homes and foster homes, the bonds you made never lasted a very long time. The friends you had left one way or another and you never had a consistent companionship.”

“Sounds about right,” Greg said.

“Friends,” Mycroft murmured, like it was a surprising idea which had never occurred to him before.

“Yeah. That’s all it is.”

Mycroft gestured for the waitress and she asked if they’d like to see the dessert menu. Greg leaned back in his chair. “I am stuffed. Thanks though. Mycroft?”

“No, thank you,” he murmured. “We would have the bill, please,” he said.

The waitress smiled and left them to it.

“I hope your trip is successful,” Greg said, looking at him. “I’ll find a case to keep Sherlock busy. I think he needs something new to really get his teeth into.”

“I’m sure the murderers of London will oblige,” Mycroft said, amused.

“Yeah, they don’t seem to have off months,” Greg grinned. “As long as I don’t get any more dead kids, I’ll be happy enough.”

The waitress put the bill down and Mycroft handed over his card. Greg ate the complimentary chocolate.

They left in silence, walked out towards the car. Greg glanced over at Mycroft. His face was neutral, but his jaw looked tense. Greg chewed his lip as they sat in the back of the car, each watching out of their own window. The desire Greg had to reach for his leg or wrap a hand around the back of his neck and pull him into a frantic kiss was all the proof he needed that it was the time to put a stop to this immediately. So when they said goodbye with barely a word at the end of the night, it was because it was for the best. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made a decision on behalf of those reading this today. This was originally two chapters, and decided to put them up as one. So it's a long one, but it might mean a day or two more before the next one. I hope that's okay! I felt the single chapter ended more conclusively.


	21. I Play With You And I Get Burned

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To: MisplacedLonelyHeartsAd, KingTaran, Velma and JustLookFrightenedAndScuttle - I can't wait to show you what's coming in the next few installments! :D Thanks for all your kind and lovely comments.

_July, 2006_

The weeks passed by in a blur of long hours and time spent sweating outdoors, the sun blasting out heat. Greg took to enjoying a sandwich in the park when he had time to grab some lunch. On a rare day off he decided to go for a jog. He was sat there now, on a bench in his shorts and a t-shirt, watching a couple stroll by with their young child.

Nearby, a pigeon was pecking at the ground and hunting for scraps. He didn’t often take time out to be quiet and ignore the rest of the world but on this occasion he allowed himself to sit and relax. He put on some sunglasses, stretching his legs out in front of him. He sipped his coffee, closing his eyes for a second.

“Greg?”

Greg looked up when he heard the woman’s voice and he stared when he realised it was Caroline there, one hand on a pram.

“Caroline,” Greg murmured, looking at her. He looked at the pram. “You… had the baby.”

“He’s two weeks old,” she said, glancing into the pram. “He came a bit early, but he’s healthy.” She smiled warily at him. “Do you want to see him?”

Greg hesitated before standing up, walking towards his ex-wife. She looked healthy, if a little tired. He looked down into the pram, the small infant sleeping. Greg smiled as he gazed down at him. He had a tiny nose. “What’s his name?” he asked quietly.

“Brandon.” Caroline smiled tiredly, reaching in and adjusting the blankets.

Greg grinned. “He’s... a baby. Nice looking kid.”

She looked at him with a bright smile. “Thank you. Can we join you?”

“Yeah, sure.” Greg sat back down on the bench and Caroline moved the pram to sit down beside him.

“So what are you up to?” she asked.

“I just came for a jog.”

“Good run?”

“Yeah, the weather’s been good. How’s…” Greg frowned, trying to recall the name. “Mark?”

“Martin,” Caroline corrected. “He’s good. We’ve set a date.”

“A date?”

“A wedding date. February.”

Greg nodded, taking another sip from his coffee. It was lukewarm now, but he tried not to show it on his face. So, she was getting married again. Their marriage had only been annulled a few weeks ago but Greg found he actually felt happy for her.

“Are you… with anyone?” Caroline asked hesitantly.

“Nah. I’ve been on a date. In February. But I’m just focused on work at the moment.”

“Don’t neglect yourself, Greg. There’s so much more to life than work.”

Greg glanced at her. “I’m not. There’s just a big case.”

“There’s always a big case,” she said. “You get lots of little ones, but there’s always a big one and you always use it as an excuse. But you need to be happy.”

“I don’t need a relationship to be happy.”

“I know,” Caroline said softly. “But I’m worried you’re lonely. Are you going to the pub with friends or anything?”

“I go out with people from work.”

She nodded. “I could set you up with-”

“-Oh no. Don’t even finish that sentence.”

Caroline laughed. “But I have a friend. She’d be great for you.”

“No. No, no, no.”

“That’s a no then?”

Greg grinned. “It’s a no.”

Caroline smiled and gently pushed the pram. “Well, call me if you change your mind. I know I could find someone who would be perfect for you.”

Greg laughed and shook his head. “Well, this is weird. My ex finding me dates.”

“We used to be good friends. Even before we got together.”

“We were,” Greg agreed.

“I’m not saying we’ll ever get that back. But I do care for you, whatever happens. I just want to see you find someone who loves you and can take care of you.”

“I don’t need taking care of.”

“We all need taking care of. And with the job you do and the things you see…” She trailed off, watching a jogger run past them. “Sometimes I think you lost yourself, Greg.” He frowned. She looked at him. “I just mean you were… what’s the word? Filled. No… overcome, no, consumed. You were totally consumed by the things you saw. And you blocked it out during the day, but at night you’d just thrash about.”

“Everyone has nightmares.”

“Not like you do, Greg.”

He frowned. “I’m alright.”

“I know. You’re a tough cookie. I always loved that about you. I knew you’d protect me against anything. You need someone as independent as you are.”

“I do, do I?” Greg asked.

“Yeah. Someone who doesn’t mind if they barely see you, because they understand work is important. You don’t like needy people.”

“You’re not needy, Caroline.”

“I know,” she said. “But I’m not independent either.” She smiled. “But now I have a tiny bundle who depends on me.”

“You got everything you wanted,” Greg murmured.

“You can have everything you want too,” she said. “You just need to figure out what that is.”

Greg nodded. Caroline looked at the pram as the baby made a sound. “I should get home,” she said. “Please don’t be a stranger, Greg. I know you’re still hurting after everything-”

“-I’m not-”

“-But please give me a call anytime. It would be great to have a catch up. And set up a date for you. I really could find you the perfect woman for you.” Greg rolled his eyes but smiled tightly at her as she stood. “Enjoy the rest of your day,” she said.

Greg nodded. “You too.”

She flashed him a wide smile before walking, murmuring happily to Brandon. Greg smiled to himself as he watched her go, and stood, collecting his rubbish and throwing it in a bin.

As he got to his flat, he felt a small longing in his chest that when he got home, someone else’s shoes would be by the door, with a second toothbrush in the glass by the sink. He pushed the thoughts away as soon as he could. He didn’t need anyone at all.

 

* * *

 

On the Saturday night, Greg enjoyed a five-a-side game, running around a field under floodlights. He relished getting out of breath, of clearing his head and just concentrating on the ball and the camaraderie.

He sat by the side of the pitch savouring a can of ice cold Diet Coke. Edmund Bullock gave him a half wave from across the pitch and Greg nodded his head in response. He sat, the breeze playing across his face. He watched the other players get into their cars before getting up and stretching his own muscles.

He drove home and showered before collapsing into his bed and lying on his back listening to music on his radio. He fell asleep with the music playing.

 

* * *

 

On Sunday, Greg called his dad. He hadn’t done so for two months and after a couple of coffees he decided it was time to do it. Their conversations were never particularly meaningful. Greg was convinced his dad had only agreed to adopt him because his mum was keen on having children.

He stretched across his sofa listening to the ring tone before his adopted father picked up. “Allo?”

“It’s Greg.”

“Greg. Hello. How are you?”

“Good thanks. You?”

“Rosa and I are on our way out. We’re going for a meal.” Rosa. Greg frowned, trying to work out if he knew that name. He didn’t ask, just in case he was supposed to remember it.

“That sounds good,” Greg said.

“How is work?” his dad asked.

“Everything’s fine. How’s the farm?”

“Busy.”

“So everything is okay?” Greg asked.

“Yes, Greg, everything is just perfect. I’m terribly sorry, I have to go. Can you call next week?”

Greg hesitated. “Sure. Yeah, okay. I can call next week.”

“Goodnight, Greg.”

“Night dad,” he murmured, ending the call. Greg sighed and turned the TV back on, where the build-up for the Arsenal game had begun.

 

* * *

 

Greg was back at work on Monday, sat looking at some of the cases which had been written on the whiteboard when Sherlock stormed in, his coat billowing behind him. “Lestrade!” he called out. Greg groaned, watching as the officers in the room averted their eyes and all made themselves look busy, while casting brief looks between them.

Greg stood up, folding his arms as Sherlock stormed towards him. “What’s up?” he asked.

“I need a case,” Sherlock growled. “What have you got?”

Greg eyed him curiously. His hands were clenched at his sides, his eyes dark and furious. “I’m not sure I’ve got anything you’ll want but come into my office and we’ll see what I can find,” he said.

Sherlock glanced at Edmund on his way in. “Another night of drinking, Bullock?”

Greg frowned and looked around at them both. “What?” he asked.

“I wasn’t… It was a few pints,” Edmund said, rubbing his head.

“And the rest,” Sherlock muttered, walking into Greg’s office. Edmund looked down at his paperwork.

Greg pressed his lips together and closed the door. He crossed his arms. “Sherlock, you can’t do that to people.”

“Why?”

“It’s just… People keep things to themselves for a reason, you can’t just embarrass them like that.”

“If you actually observed you’d see it for yourself anyway. I need a case, Lestrade. Give me anything. I need a good one. I need one now, right now.”

“Sherlock, chill out,” Greg warned.

“Case! Give me a case!”

“You can’t just come in here and demand-”

“Anything. I’ll take anything you’ve got.”

Greg stared at him. His arms were practically shaking, but he didn’t appear high. “Sherlock, I don’t think I have anything for you,” he said softly. “Just calm-”

“-You have to. You’re all stupid. There must be something you’re working on.” Sherlock grabbed a file from Greg’s desk and furiously flicked through the paperwork, his eyes skimming the words and the pictures. “It’s the receptionist. Boring. Come on, Lestrade! Case! I need it.”

“What do you mean it’s the receptionist?” Greg asked with a frown, taking the paper from him.

“She stole the money. Lestrade. I need a case.” Sherlock slammed it hand down on the desk. “I’m bored! I can feel my mind dying. I need a case. I need it. Do you have any idea what it’s like to feel your brain filling with space and matter and details and everywhere, and I need to concentrate on a case. It’s overwhelming, Inspector, I need it.”

Greg frowned, rifling through the papers on his desk. Sherlock was an addict. And apparently he could move from one fixation to another. “Sherlock, it’s all boring,” he said. “There’s nothing here that will interest you. I promise, when I find you something-”

“I need it _now_!”

“I don’t have anything now, Sherlock. I’m sorry. I wish I did but I don’t. I will call you as soon as anything happens.” Greg planted his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders but he stepped back straight away. He huffed before turning and storming back out, slamming the door behind him. Greg chewed his lip before sending a text to Mycroft.

 

MESSAGES  
9.47am: Worried about Sherlock.  
He’s very wired. Just to let you  
know.

 

* * *

 

Greg kept his phone close all day but he didn’t hear from Mycroft. He had intended to go straight to Sherlock’s flat as soon as he finished work, but he had spent a long afternoon sat in the Crown Court giving evidence. The mother was finally found guilty for the death of her child. The day had been draining but a relief, which meant he was exhausted by the time he finally got home.

He crashed onto his bed after eating some pasta and his phone chimed.

 

MESSGAES Mycroft Holmes  
10.23pm: Can you please come to  
Crusader House? I need some help  
with Sherlock. M

 

Greg swore and slid off the bed, grabbing a jacket from the side.

 

* * *

 

Greg was let through the door. At first he didn’t see them. Then he saw it.

Sherlock had Mycroft pressed against the wall, one arm held tightly, twisted painfully, around his back. Sherlock’s other hand was pressed against his throat. 

“Oi!” Greg rushed forward, catching Sherlock off guard, and grabbing the arm he had wound around Mycroft’s neck. He yanked Sherlock backward, tightening the grip on his arm and hooking a leg around his ankle to pull him off-balance. He pushed Sherlock down to one knee, gripping one arm tightly in the air, holding it to deliberately inflict some pain. “What the fuck are you doing?” Greg demanded, pulling the arm tighter.

He heard Sherlock’s exclamation of pain but Greg’s eyes flicked to Mycroft instead as the man pushed away from the wall, reaching to gingerly touch his throat.

Greg let go of Sherlock’s arm, but pulled him up by his coat, pushing his back into the wall. Sherlock’s eyes were dark but unfocused. Greg slammed him harder into the wall by his shoulder. “You bloody idiot,” he muttered, staring at him before letting him go. “Mycroft, d’you have a room I can shove your idiot brother in?” Greg didn’t look at Mycroft, staring aggressively at Sherlock instead.

“The spare bedroom beside to the bathroom,” Mycroft whispered hoarsely, and Greg tightly held Sherlock’s shoulder as he marched him to the room. He all but pushed him in, turning on the light and slamming the door closed behind them.

“What the hell was that?” Greg demanded as Sherlock stumbled towards the bed.

Sherlock rolled his eyes as he slumped onto it.

“No,” Greg said, pointing at him. “No, you do not try and throttle your brother and then roll your eyes at me. You do not get high and threaten him like that, do you hear me? It is _not_ on.”

Sherlock huffed and curled up on the bed. “Do shut up, Lestrade.”

Greg took a deep breath, staring at him. “What the hell are you doing?”

“He irritated me,” Sherlock said.

“Yeah? Well you irritate me too, but I don’t get high and beat you up.”

“Aren’t you the moral one?” Sherlock said, bitterly.

“You stay in this room, Holmes, until I figure out what the hell I’m doing with you.” Greg turned on his heel, shutting the door with a bang. He looked across the room to where Mycroft stood, staring out of the window.

Greg bit his lip and collapsed into one of the chairs. He rubbed his face and glanced at his watch. 10.56pm. He looked at where Mycroft stood, where he could make out just a bit of his face. His head was tilted down, his shoulders slumped. Greg swallowed as he watched. He wanted nothing more than to approach him and to - what?

They’d set the boundaries and though he wanted to - something - he couldn’t do it because he didn’t want to face the inevitable rejection. And though Mycroft looked defeated, he couldn’t just walk over there and say it was okay.

God, fucking Christ, it wasn’t okay because his brother had him against a wall with violence on his mind and there was no way on earth that was ever going to be okay.

Greg looked down at his knees and closed his eyes for a second. He couldn’t lie and say he hadn’t seen it coming. Sherlock back on the drugs made sense, especially after the fanatical state he’d been in earlier that day. Greg was stupid if he thought it was over.

But Mycroft must have believed, hoped, no matter how stupid that hope was, that Sherlock would be cured. And that he wasn’t, that something had happened to cause him to push him into a wall like that…

Mycroft hadn’t moved. Greg knew what he wanted to do. He wanted to go over there and wrap his arms around his neck and tell him they’d get through it. And tell him they’d yank Sherlock through it too. It might be a lie to say Sherlock could be sorted out. He was an addict. And how much energy could they possibly give to curing him? How much time could they give before it broke the both of them? If Mycroft wasn’t smashed to smithereens already.

He wanted to pull him close. He wanted to make him feel like it could be alright, even if it was a lie, even if the chances of it being true were far, far away. But how could he? They were just friends, and men didn’t just go and hug their friends. And that hug in the hospital all those months ago had been unplanned and strange really, when you thought about it.

But it was Mycroft. And just look of him. Tortured and angry. Greg looked at his watch again. Five minutes had passed and neither of them had moved. Greg felt like they’d stay in this silent stand-off forever, both fuming inside and both wondering what the hell the next move would be.

He let out a long, slow breath before peeling himself away from the comfort of the chair. He walked gradually towards Mycroft. The man hardly flinched as he edged closer. Greg moved until he was beside him and Mycroft’s head turned to look at him. His face was expressionless, his eyes empty and distant.

“That wasn’t the first time he did that, was it?” Greg asked, keeping his voice low. Mycroft shook his head.

Greg wrapped an arm around his shoulders, rubbing his thumb against his shirt. Mycroft’s eyes met his for a brief second. He looked lost and anguished. Greg stepped closer and wrapped his arms around the younger man, bringing him in close.

Mycroft stood stiffly against him before his arms lifted to wrap around Greg’s waist, securing their position. Mycroft’s head lowered to his shoulder in a defeated gesture which hurt Greg’s heart.

Greg sighed and closed his eyes, inhaling the faint smell of Mycroft’s aftershave as he dropped his own head to Mycroft’s shoulder. His hands stroked Mycroft’s back, feeling the muscle and some of the bones of his spine.

They held steadfastly to each other, securing each other to the spot. And while Greg was willing to stand there as long as necessary he wondered if it was time to let go, whether this lingering hold was lasting a few too many minutes.

But neither of them moved.

One of Mycroft’s hands clenched and unclenched against his back. Greg sighed and pulled back a bit, keeping his hands on Mycroft’s shoulders. Mycroft’s eyes lifted to meet his, his arms still resting against Greg’s back.

Greg moved one hand, cupping Mycroft’s face. He wanted to tell him, show him, they’d sort it, but the words were dead on his lips. He couldn’t even utter a comforting lie.

His thumb brushed against Mycroft’s cheekbone and Mycroft’s eyes fluttered closed, his lips parting. Greg’s breath caught in his throat. He was exquisite.

Mycroft’s eyes opened again and he leaned forward just a fraction and Greg moved his face closer too. Mycroft’s hot breath shuddered against Greg’s cheek and he was so close to brushing their lips together…

“Mycroft!” came Sherlock’s shout, cutting into the silence.

Greg swallowed.

“I’m sorry,” Mycroft murmured.

“It’s okay,” Greg whispered back. “Do you want me to check on him?”

“Please,” Mycroft said so quietly.

Greg gave his arm one brief squeeze before strolling to the spare bedroom. He opened the door and closed it behind him. He leaned against the wall.

Sherlock was curled up on the bed, his hands fisted in the covers. His eyes opened and he looked at Greg, his brows pressed close together. “I have seen you do a lot of shitty things Sherlock. But that is the worst,” Greg told him.

Sherlock shook his head. “Mycroft is ridiculous.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“Well that was a brilliant argument, Lestrade. Your wit knows no bounds.”

“You are a spiteful, horrible bastard,” Greg spat. “What were you thinking, taking drugs again?”

“The substance was different,” Sherlock said. “The noise turned to lights and colour. Heroin used to make it silent, but it was something new. It made everything bright and painful. Mycroft feels like knives on every inch of my skin.”

“So you thought it would be acceptable to shove him into a wall and strangle him.”

“Mycroft is despicable. He always has been.”

Greg shook his head. “You realise you’re taking everything out on the person who cares about you most in the world, right?”

“Mycroft doesn’t do caring, Lestrade.”

“I beg to differ.”

Sherlock frowned at him. “You’re getting sentimental.”

“No, I’m not. I’m not.”

“You’ve stopped having physical relations and yet you still spend time with him. I don’t understand.”

“I like him, Sherlock, he’s a nice guy.”

“No, he’s not.”

“Maybe not to you because you decided to attack him.”

“He deserved it.”

“No, he didn’t,” Greg said, shaking his head.

“How would you know?”

“Because I know him.”

“How many men have you killed, Inspector?”

Greg shoved his hands into his pockets. “None but what’s that got-”

“How many men do you think Mycroft’s killed? Had organised to have killed? He is the most dangerous man you will ever meet and you’re getting sentimental about him.”

Greg shook his head in disbelief. “You’re trying to play me.”

“I’m high, Lestrade, but that doesn’t make me stupid.”

“You can’t stay here,” Greg said.

“Obvious,” Sherlock said.

“You have drugs at your flat, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“You’re coming back to mine.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him. “I just tried to strangle your lover and you’re inviting me back to your flat.”

“He is not my lover.”

“No. But who’s decision was that? Not yours, that is clear. Fetch me a blanket.”

“What?”

“Get me a blanket. The drug is almost out of my system and I’m about to start shaking and craving another hit. So get me a blanket.”

Greg sighed. Why did he do these things? “Stay there.”

Greg walked out of the room, closing the door behind him. Mycroft was sat in his chair, a glass of brandy in his hand. “Mycroft, I need a blanket,” Greg murmured.

Mycroft looked up at him, swallowing. “The airing cupboard in the bathroom,” he said quietly.

Greg walked over to him and knelt down in front of him. “I’m taking Sherlock to mine. You’re not safe around him right now and he’s a liability to himself. I’m going to come around tomorrow to see you, okay?”

Mycroft nodded. Greg started to stand and Mycroft reached out to touch his shoulder. Greg looked up at him. “I am terribly sorry, Greg. For involving you in this.”

“It’s alright,” Greg said. “We’ll solve this. Is your throat okay?”

“I’ve experienced worse.”

“By Sherlock?”

“In my work.”

Greg nodded. That was a conversation for another day. He stood and touched Mycroft’s arm. “I want to stay here with you. But I need to get Sherlock to mine. If you need anything, text me.”

Mycroft nodded and Greg reluctantly moved away, walking into the bathroom. He found the airing cupboard and retrieved a red blanket from the pile of towels and sheets. Mycroft had retreated into the kitchen by the time Greg left the bathroom and he wandered back to the spare room. Sherlock was sat up on the bed and Greg tossed him the blanket.

Sherlock hung it around his shoulders.

“We’re going now,” Greg said. “So get up.”

Sherlock rose to his feet, his legs shaking. Greg ignored the urge to wrap an arm around him and support him. He despised him right now. He and Sherlock left the room and Greg called out to Mycroft, telling him he’ll text when he got home.

Greg led the way down the stairs, not bringing himself to sympathise when Sherlock lost his footing on the bottom few steps and slid to the bottom, hitting his head against the wall. “Get up,” Greg snarled. He held his arm out to help but Sherlock shrugged it off, dragging himself up.

He got in the back of Greg’s car, lying along the seats. It was a brief drive and Greg parked outside the flats. Sherlock followed him without a word, holding tightly to the blanket.

Greg opened the door to the flat and left Sherlock standing in his living room as he went to the bedroom. He grabbed two pillows from his bed and dumped them on the sofa. “You can sleep there. Do you need anything?”

“No,” Sherlock said, lying down on the sofa, pulling the blanket over himself. Greg saw him shaking. However much he hated him right now, he still couldn’t help but care.

“Sherlock, seriously. If you need anything, shout now.”

“Water,” Sherlock said.

Greg went to the kitchen, pouring them each a glass. He put it down on the table in front of the younger man and watched him for a few moments. “I’m going to bed,” he said. “If you’re struggling then wake me up.”

He turned the light off and went into his own bedroom. Rubbing his face, he undressed and turned the light off, sliding under the covers. He adjusted his own pillows and sighed. He was shaken by what he’d seen that evening.

He grabbed his phone and text Mycroft.

 

MESSAGES  
12.03am: We’ve both got to bed.  
I think Sherlock has calmed down  
a bit. I hope you’re ok. Tell me  
when you’re free and I’ll pop over  
tomorrow.

 

When he didn’t hear anything for half an hour, he closed his eyes and went to sleep.

 

 


	22. Sometimes Nothing Is The Better Hand

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have so many thank yous to give for the last chapter it's utterly ridiculous.  
> oxana, TodayIsWhereYourBookBegins, MoonRiver, Spooky831, novels (Novels) and JustLookFrightenedAndScuttle - Cannot thank you enough for your words and your encouragement. And to Velma, KingTaran, MisplacedLonelyHeartsAd for your really interesting analysis of the characters. It's fascinating to read.  
> Fic time!! :D

_July, 2006_

Greg awoke to the sound of clattering from his kitchen. He frowned for a second, trying to remember why someone was in his flat and then recalled Sherlock. High Sherlock who decided strangling his brother was the best way to deal with his boredom. Fantastic…

It was 5.20am, but Greg wasn’t going to leave him in the kitchen unsupervised. He’d probably blow it up or something. Greg slid out of bed, grabbing the dressing gown from the back of the door.

Sherlock was stood in the kitchen spooning a number of sugars into a cup of tea. “You’ll rot your teeth doing that,” Greg said. Sherlock strolled back to the sofa, tea in hand. “You going to offer to make me one?” Greg asked, already knowing the answer.

Sherlock sipped from his cup, looking up at Greg with a single raised eyebrow. Greg let out an exasperated breath and moved to the kitchen, turning the kettle on and spooning out some coffee. “Well, at least you didn’t try to strangle me in my sleep.”

“It was tempting,” Sherlock said.

“It was tempting to do the same to you, so I’ll let that slide.” Greg poured the milk and sat down on the opposite couch. He frowned at him. “Are the drugs out of your system?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“What was it?” Greg asked.

“What?”

“What did you take, Sherlock?”

“I’m not sure. Some sort of hallucinogenic.”

Greg rubbed his face. “I don’t even know what to say to you right now.”

“Finally. Silence. Give me your laptop.”

“What? No way. Not going to happen.”

“I got bored so I took drugs. I’m bored now. If you give me your laptop I might get less bored and I might be less likely to take drugs.” Sherlock held his hands out. “Give.”

Greg sighed and stood up, walking to his bedroom and retrieving it. “I’m not your slave, Sherlock!”

“Don’t type in your password!” Sherlock called from the living room. “I’ll deduce it for myself.” Greg handed the laptop to him, collapsing back into the chair.

He watched as Sherlock looked around the room and then at him. His fingers tapped the keyboard without actually pressing a button. Sherlock glanced at him again and then back at the computer before typing. He smiled sardonically and Greg heard the sound of the computer giving him access. So apparently he’d need to change his password.  _scotlandyard_ was a bit obvious for Sherlock Holmes, he supposed. Next time he’d come up with something really random. Like the first thing to pop into his head or something. 

He left Sherlock on his laptop and went to the bathroom for a shave and a shower. After dressing he looked at him. “Are you going to sit there all day?”

“Probably,” Sherlock murmured.

“Well, don’t… mess everything up.” Greg put some bread in the toaster. “Do you want breakfast?”

Sherlock didn’t reply and Greg put another slice in anyway. He left the plate in front of Sherlock on the table and walked to his room to grab the spare key. He put it down on the table beside the uneaten toast. “Make sure you lock the door if you leave,” Greg said. “And if you’re tempted to take drugs then can you please just text me so I can grab you and find something for you to do?” Sherlock said nothing as he began to type. Greg sighed and ate his toast in silence before grabbing his phone, keys and wallet. “I’m going to work. Please stay out of trouble until I get home.”

Greg text Mycroft when he arrived at the Yard. He had been expecting a message from him and had been concerned to find no such correspondence.

 

MESSAGES  
6.20am: Sherlock is still at mine.  
Text me and let me know you’re ok.  
What time can I come over?

 

MESSAGES Mycroft Holmes  
6.25am: There is no need to come.  
I am fine. M

 

MESSAGES  
6.27am: I don’t care, I’m coming  
round anyway. When?

 

MESSAGES Mycroft Holmes  
6.28am: I really must insist that  
you don’t. M

 

MESSAGES  
6.29: I’m not good at following  
orders. Even yours. When?

 

MESSAGES Mycroft Holmes  
6.50am: 8pm. M

 

Greg smiled a little and made a coffee for himself and Sally as they sat down at his desk to discuss their next move in a domestic abuse case.

“You’re in the papers today,” Sally said, passing a copy of the Mail over the desk. “Page 13.”

Greg frowned and opened it. It was a report on the child murder case, story continued from the front page. Inside the text was a small picture of his face. Lead investigator: DI Greg Lestrade, the caption read. 

 

_“SOLVING this heinous crime so quickly and so conclusively was the result of outstanding work by officers,” said the Commander of Scotland Yard yesterday._

_Commander Scott Ireson was speaking to reporters outside The Old Bailey after the sentencing of Katie Wilson._

_He said: “Led by Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade, our officers worked swiftly and over many hours to bring about a quick conclusion to this terrible crime._

_“It is never easy to process so many leads in such a manner, and though the sentencing of Katie Wilson today will bring no relief to her family, nor bring Peter Wilson back, London can be safe in the knowledge that officers at New Scotland Yard have the necessary skills to bring perpetrators of terrible and violent crimes to justice._

_“At a time when the police is facing budget cuts, losing staff and receiving a raw deal in the press, it is appropriate to thank the leading officers in this case and the hundreds of others which are processed through our court system every year.”_

 

Greg stared at the report. The Commander just made a political statement about budgets. And used his name to make it. Greg frowned. “Sally, I’m sorry I got a mention in this. I was crap in that case.”

“You weren’t.”

“Yeah, I was. I mean, I know I technically led, but I didn’t do much in the way of leading.”

Sally shrugged. “I don’t care about the glory. I just thought you might like to keep it. Frame it or something, now you’re famous.” She smiled across at him. Greg smiled and put the newspaper into a drawer. “You should speak to Ed, by the way,” Sally said. “Sherlock upset him yesterday.”

Greg rubbed his face. “I know. He looked pretty miserable all day. Is his drinking that bad?”

Sally pulled a face. “I don’t want to say it, but Sherlock did have a point.”

“Shit,” Greg muttered. “I was afraid you’d say that.”

“It’s a tough job, sir,” Sally said. “People get stressed and deal with it in different ways.”

“How do you deal with it?” Greg asked, looking across at her.

“Same way you do.”

“And what’s that?”

“Take work home with me.”

Greg smiled a bit and nodded. “Yeah. I try not to.”

“Even when you don’t take paperwork home, it’s not easy to just switch off,” Sally said.

“I know.” The phone rang and Greg reached for it. “Lestrade.”

Edmund told him there was a body at a crime scene. Probable suicide but they were being requested to check there weren’t any suspicious circumstances.

 

* * *

 

Greg managed to finish work on time, casting one last look at his emails and shutting down his computer. Sherlock was still on his sofa when Greg got there, sat in the same clothes and typing away on Greg’s laptop. The toast lay uneaten on the table, but he had at least got up to make another cup of tea.

“You going to get dressed anytime today?” Greg asked, looking through his fridge for something to eat. “Do you want any food?”

“I’m not hungry,” Sherlock said, his fingers not stilling for a second on the keyboard.

“What you doing anyway?” Greg asked, leaning on the back of the sofa.

“Finishing the blurb for my perfume study. The results are ready for publication.”

Greg read some of the words over Sherlock’s shoulder. ‘Perfume could be key to working out someone’s habits’, ‘could be key to solving a crime’, ‘key to working out how rich or poor someone is, how proud they are of their appearance’.

“You have been busy,” Greg said going back into the kitchen and putting a pizza into the oven. “So, when is it going online?”

“Tomorrow,” Sherlock murmured. “You’re going to see Mycroft, aren’t you?”

“I am,” Greg said, leaning on the door frame. “You want me to say sorry for you?”

“No, don’t bother. Mycroft won’t be interested in false apologies.”

“It doesn’t have to be false.”

“But it is.”

Greg sighed. “You’re bloody impossible, you know that?”

“Drive me back to my flat, Inspector.”

“I will, just let me eat my pizza first.” Greg poured himself a glass of water and took a seat on the other sofa. He turned the TV on and Sherlock made an exaggerated sigh. “What now?”

“How do you expect me to work with that on?”

Greg turned the volume up, kicking his shoes off and stretching out along the furniture. Sherlock huffed and began typing even more furiously on the keys in response.

After 15 minutes of watching the news, Greg got up and went into the kitchen for his pizza. He sat down with it, while he and Sherlock sat in silence. He finished his food and went to go and find his car keys. “Come on then, Holmes. I’ll drive you home.”

Sherlock shut down the laptop, holding it in his arms. “Finally,” he muttered.

Greg looked at the laptop. “You’re not taking that with you.”

“My blurb is on it.”

“Then email it to yourself.” Sherlock continued to stare at him. “You’re a nightmare,” Greg said, conceding. “I give you an inch and you take the whole flipping motorway.”

Sherlock offered him a fake half smile. Greg picked up his keys and phone and held the front door open for him. They both walked down the stairs and Greg led the way to his car. Greg couldn’t believe he’d let Sherlock keep his laptop. He must be getting soft. They drove to Sherlock’s road and Greg followed him up the stairs without any protest from Sherlock.

Sherlock disappeared into his bedroom and returned with a pile of drugs which he promptly handed to Greg. Greg looked down at them and sighed. “Is this everything?”

Sherlock looked around. “Yes.” He set Greg’s laptop down on his desk and took a seat there. Greg grabbed a plastic bag from the kitchen counter and dropped everything into it. He proceeded to carry out a thorough search of the flat, despite Sherlock’s protests that there was nothing to find there. Finally convinced there was nothing, Greg looked at him.

“If you get tempted again, you need to call me,” Greg said, looking at the back of his head. “Will you look at me a minute, please?” He bit his lip. “Fine. Don’t. Are you sure you don’t want me to say sorry to your brother from you?”

“No.”

“Right.” Greg walked to the door, taking another brief look at him. He put the assortment of drugs into the car’s glove compartment and drove back home. There, he had a quick shower and a change of clothes, exchanging his smart trousers for a pair of more comfortable jeans. He watched the television for a while, playing Solitaire on his phone.

At 7.33pm, he stood and checked his face in the mirror, putting on some aftershave (he and Mycroft may not have been sleeping together anymore but that didn’t mean he couldn’t still smell nice) and left his flat.

He chose to walk. The 15 minutes between his flat and Pall Mall was a good one with busy roads and plenty of noise to stop him from thinking too much.

He reached Crusader House quicker than expected and earlier than the time he and Mycroft had agreed upon but he was allowed straight up anyway. The butler did make him wait at the door, telling him Mr Holmes was on the phone but he would be allowed in shortly.

Greg tried to make small talk about the weather, but the man was having none of it. Greg couldn’t figure out why the man hated him so much. Maybe he hated everyone.

At 7.58pm, Greg was let in. Mycroft was sat in his seat beside the fire. Greg took a seat on the couch. “How is Sherlock?” Mycroft asked.

“A pain in the arse. I’ve confiscated a load of drugs from his flat, I’ve got them in my car at the moment.”

Mycroft pressed his hands together. “It wasn’t heroin,” he said.

“No. Some sort of hallucinogenic. Are you alright?”

“Mm. Yes. Would you like to share a bottle of wine? I find I’m rather in need of some.”

Greg nodded. “Sure.” Mycroft stood and padded into the kitchen. Greg followed, watching him closely. Mycroft reached into the drinks cabinet with his left arm. Greg may not have been Sherlock Holmes but even he noticed he was using the opposite arm to normal. Still in pain then.

“Has anyone looked at your shoulder?” he asked.

“It isn’t injured,” Mycroft said. He retrieved two glasses, setting them down on the table and pouring the bottle out. Greg sat down at the table, keeping a close eye on him.

“So, can you tell me what happened last night?” Greg asked.

“It was a minor disagreement.”

“It didn’t look minor from where I was sitting.”

Mycroft took the other chair, inhaling his wine before taking a long sip. Greg looked closely at his neck. There was a small bruise to the left of his windpipe. Mycroft swallowed and looked down at the table, pressing two fingers to his temple.

Greg frowned at him. “Come on. What happened?”

“He came over asking for money.”

Greg sighed. “I’m sorry,” he said.

“What on earth for?” Mycroft asked.

“He came to my office demanding cases. He was really manic. I’d have thought he was high if I didn’t know different.”

“He must have been taking them all day,” Mycroft said. He took a breath and touched his head again. “We had a disagreement and I wasn’t quick enough and he had me against the wall.”

“What were you disagreeing about?”

“Oh, what do Sherlock and I ever disagree about? Everything and anything.”

“But he’s done that before? Attack you like that?”

“Yes. His intention was not to harm me, I assure you. It was a warning.”

“Warning to what?”

“Keep away. Ironic, really, when he was demanding money from me. I told him to find a job. He is under the impression he has one already.”

“Consulting detective,” Greg muttered.

“Quite. I told him to use his website to find himself cases. Apparently that was too much effort.”

Greg chuckled and took a long gulp of wine. Mycroft winced and rubbed two fingers against his forehead. “You got a headache?” Greg asked.

“Work has been problematic.”

“Have you taken any painkillers?”

“It’s not a headache.”

Greg frowned, trying to work out what else it could be. “Too many thoughts?” he asked.

“I can’t turn it off,” Mycroft murmured, touching his temple. “It’s noise, it’s exhausting.”

“Is it because you’re stressed?”

“Almost certainly.”

“What can I do?”

“There’s nothing.”

Greg watched him for a moment. “But I can turn it down, right?” he asked, his voice low. “Just for a while.”

Mycroft looked at him sharply. “We made a decision, Greg,” he warned.

“I know. We did. But we can change our minds. Let me help you.” They gazed at each other for a long time before Mycroft finally nodded. Greg grabbed his chair, pulling it over in front of him. “You said sex helps. Takes your mind off it.” Mycroft nodded. “So, just let me be in charge, alright? Don’t think, just feel.”

Greg reached out, tracing his index finger along the outline of Mycroft’s jaw. Mycroft briefly closed his eyes, tilting his head into the touch. Greg pressed his thumb lightly to Mycroft’s lips, tracing the light curves of it. “Just relax,” Greg whispered.

He rested his hand on Mycroft’s thigh and tilted his face towards him. He brushed their lips together and heard himself sigh at the contact. Mycroft’s hand reached up to touch the side of Greg’s neck, drawing him in closer and depending the kiss.

Greg heard his own soft groan as Mycroft slid further forward on his chair, one of his legs pressing in between Greg’s. Greg let Mycroft dictate the pressure between their mouths and felt his lips part, allowing Greg to swipe his tongue against his.

Greg pulled back. “Shall we go somewhere more comfortable?” he asked.

Mycroft nodded, standing. Greg followed him to the living room where Mycroft took a seat on the sofa. Greg sat down beside him, cupping his cheek with his hand and drawing him back into a kiss. It was slow and undemanding. Mycroft’s hand found his leg and stroked light patterns on the inside of his thigh. Greg hooked his hands in Mycroft’s waistcoat, bringing them together.

He wanted the other man to be comfortable. He quickly thought to their other encounters where Mycroft had pushed Greg onto the sofa. So, perhaps he wanted to be in charge, to control the pace. Maybe he didn’t want to completely trapped underneath - his claustrophobia may be worse than Greg’s - so Greg lay down on the sofa, pulling Mycroft down on top of him.

The kiss deepened and Greg threaded his fingers in his soft hair, and under his waistcoat to feel his shirt. It was as close to the skin as he could access.

Greg dropped his hands to Mycroft’s belt, quickly unfastening it, breaking the kiss briefly as he pulled it free. He unfastened Mycroft’s fly and kissed the side of his neck. “Use my mouth,” Greg murmured, looking at him.

“Greg-”

“I want you to. You like to dictate the pace, right?” Mycroft’s eyes lowered, as though embarrassed. “Just lose yourself,” Greg whispered. “It’s okay. It’s what I want.”

Mycroft’s lips parted at his words, his eyebrows furrowed. “Are you sure?” he asked, stroking his thumb against Greg’s eyebrow. Greg pushed his hand inside Mycroft’s trousers, cupping his cock. Mycroft gasped.

“I’m definitely sure,” Greg said. “I want you to stop thinking, as much as you can, and just have everything you want from me. Okay?” He looked Mycroft straight in the eye, trying to prove how much he meant it. He felt Mycroft’s hips press forward and Greg squeezed his cock through his boxers. “That’s the way,” Greg murmured, grabbing his tie and pulling him down for another kiss.

Greg pushed down Mycroft’s trousers and they broke the kiss to allow Mycroft to kick them off. He straddled Greg’s hips and Greg looked up at him. What a fine specimen of a man, he thought, looking up at his flushed cheeks and neck, his red silky underwear tented, his thighs dusted in light hairs. “You are gorgeous,” Greg said, looking at him.

He hooked his thumbs in Mycroft’s underwear, easing them down over his cock. He could see how aroused the other man was, his cock leaking with precome, his thighs trembling.

“C’mere,” Greg said, sitting up a bit. He put one hand on Mycroft’s hip, dropping one down onto his arse.

Mycroft swallowed, shuffling up until his cock was level with Greg’s mouth. Greg wrapped his hand around the base and Mycroft shuddered. Greg broke the gap, flicking out his tongue to lick the bead of precome away. Mycroft let out a gasp, one hand curling tightly against the back of the sofa.

Greg leaned forward to take the head into his mouth, and he watched as Mycroft’s eyes fall closed as he emitted a deep sigh of pleasure. Greg flicked his tongue out, experimenting with different licks. And finally Mycroft moved his hips forward, pushing more of himself into Greg’s mouth. Greg groaned around him, stroking Mycroft’s hip in encouragement. Greg looked up at him, where he seemed lost in his own pleasure, beginning to move his hips. Greg kept his hand in place to ensure he couldn’t push too far down his throat, pumping the base of cock in time with Mycroft’s movements.

Mycroft’s eyes opened and looked straight into Greg’s. Greg moaned around him again and saw Mycroft tremble, lowering one hand to rest on the side of Greg’s face. Their gaze was fixed on each other’s as Mycroft sped up his gentle thrusts. Greg faintly felt his own arousal, tight and nearly painful in his jeans, but pleasuring Mycroft, letting him switch off, was the only thing he was fully conscious of.

He heard Mycroft whisper his name and Greg moaned again at the beautiful sound of it, flicking his tongue as hard as he could against his cock. Mycroft’s head dropped, his fingers tightening in Greg’s hair as he pressed forward one more time and came with a gasp. Greg held him in his mouth, slackening his jaw as he swallowed what the younger man gave. Greg let Mycroft out of his mouth and the other man leaned forward, dropping his head onto Greg’s shoulder and lying down on top of him. Greg adjusted his position in the chair, wrapping his arms around Mycroft’s waist and stroking his back. He turned his head, pressing his lips against Mycroft’s hair but not actually kissing there for fear it was too intimate a gesture.

He listened to Mycroft’s shaky breaths as Greg closed his eyes. They lay like that for a while, Mycroft’s body relaxed against him while Greg kept him there, not willing him to move for even a second, even when he felt his foot beginning to cramp, even when he began to feel pins and needles in his thigh. If Mycroft needed this then Greg would let him have it. Eventually Mycroft moved and Greg’s hand rested on his arm as he moved to the other side of the sofa and pulled up his underwear.

They looked at each other and Greg smiled at him. “Okay?” he asked.

“It worked,” Mycroft whispered back, closing his eyes for a second. Greg leaned forward to rest his hand on Mycroft’s shoulder, squeezing it in reassurance. “I truly did not think…” Mycroft started and shook his head.

Greg smiled again and let go of him. “Shall I get our wine?” he asked.

“Mm. Do.”

Greg stood up, taking one last quick look at him as he tilted his head back. He walked into the kitchen and adjusted himself in his jeans. He was desperate to come, but he was perfectly content with it being a one-sided affair that evening. He carried their glasses through. Mycroft was still sat in his underwear, his shirt, tie and waistcoat out of place. His head was resting on the back of the sofa, his eyes closed.

Greg grinned and put the glasses on the table. Mycroft opened his eyes at the noise and looked at Greg. “Would you like me to-”

“-No,” Greg said quickly. “Not that I don’t want you to, because you’re amazing. But I just want you to look after yourself right now.”

Mycroft nodded. “I don’t think I’m capable of movement right now,” he said. “Let alone thought.”

Greg laughed and took the seat beside him, sipping some wine. Mycroft reached out to touch his face and Greg shuffled closer to him. Mycroft moved his face closer to Greg’s and then stopped. Thinking he was about to pull back, Greg closed the gap, drawing Mycroft’s bottom lip between his own. The faint hum of approval made him smile and they pressed light kisses to each other’s lips before Mycroft eventually turned his face away. Greg sat up to return to the opposite end of the sofa, but Mycroft’s hand touched his thigh and they looked at each other.

Greg settled back into the chair, letting Mycroft’s hand rest on his leg for a few seconds before Mycroft retrieved his trousers from the floor and pulled them on. “Would you like to watch a film?” Mycroft asked suddenly.

Greg stared at him. “A film?”

“Yes, people do that on occasion, do they not?”

Greg grinned. “Yeah, sometimes they do. What film were you thinking?”

“I’m not sure what I own. My parents insisted on buying me a collection for Christmas one year. I’ve never even taken them out of the plastic.”

Greg laughed. “Let me see what you’ve got then.”

Mycroft led the way to his office, and knelt down beside a cabinet. He pulled out a box and Greg took the lid off. He took the DVDs out as Mycroft stood, spreading them out on the desk. “I don’t know any of these films,” Greg said, looking at them. “But I’ll go with whatever you want. This one looks creepy,” Greg said, picking it up.

“El Espiritu de la Colmena. The Spirit of the Beehive,” Mycroft murmured. “It’s a Spanish film, considered quite the masterpiece of Spanish cinema I believe.”

Greg turned it over and read the synopsis. A sensitive seven-year-old girl living in a small village in 1940 rural Spain is traumatised after viewing James Whale’s Frankenstein and drifts into her own fantasy world. “Definitely creepy,” Greg said. “How about Frankenstein then?” he asked, picking up the case.

“I enjoyed the book,” Mycroft said. Greg smiled and handed him the case.

“Frankenstein it is. I’ll bring the bottle of wine out and you can put it on. Where exactly is your TV?”

Mycroft chuckled and left the room. Greg followed him out, a curious expression on his face, and watched as he moved towards a painting. “Wait,” Greg said. “What is that?” He moved closer to it. He’d seen the painting on the wall, but he’d never really paid it much attention before. It depicted a misty scene, a monument to one side and a bridge on the other as cloaked figures walked through the fog. It was dark and haunting, as the hooded figures trailed into the distance.

“It’s by Ernst Ferdinand Oehme,” Mycroft said. “It’s a print, not an original.”

Greg looked at it more closely. “It’s… not nice, really. I don’t know what the word is for it. It seems. Sad.”

“It is the Procession In The Fog, from 1828. A group of monks walking through the fog. There is no deeper meaning than that,” Mycroft said. Greg frowned, but said nothing. Mycroft reached out to hold the picture frame and lifted it carefully from the wall. Greg’s mouth dropped open when he saw the television behind it.

“You’re kidding me?” he asked in disbelief. “You keep your TV behind a painting?”

“A print of a painting,” Mycroft corrected. “But for all intents and purposes, yes.”

Greg laughed and walked into the kitchen, shaking his head. He retrieved the wine bottle and carried it back into the living room. Mycroft had a television remote in his hand and was flicking through the channels.

Greg sat down on the sofa, topping up their glasses. Mycroft pulled the curtains shut and dimmed the lights. “So, Mycroft,” Greg said. He looked round at him. “I know you like your horror books and stuff. But this film is from the 1930s. So if I laugh at it, I’m saying sorry now.”

Mycroft laughed and turned off the lights. He sat down beside Greg on the sofa, closer than Greg was expecting him to sit. He pressed start and picked up his wine. “You are forgiven in advance,” Mycroft smiled, stretching his legs out in front of him, one leg hooked over the other. Greg glanced at him, grinned and leaned against the arm rest. “You can stretch across the seat if you’d like,” Mycroft said. “I know you often sit like it.”

Greg tilted his head. “You sure?”

“I wouldn’t have offered otherwise.”

Greg grinned and adjusted the cushions behind his back, extending his legs out across the sofa and over Mycroft’s lap. One of Mycroft’s hand fell to rest on his thigh, just above his knee. “Let me know if I’m squashing you,” Greg said.

“I will.”

Greg smiled, feeling the warmth of Mycroft’s hand through his jeans. He turned and began to watch the film.

Greg didn’t laugh as much as he expected. He became so engrossed, in fact, that he sipped from his glass only to find he had finished all his wine. Mycroft chuckled at him and topped the glass up.

Half-way through, Mycroft’s thumb began to move against his leg, a slow rhythmic movement which Greg felt and never wanted to end. He glanced over. Mycroft appeared enraptured in the film, hanging on every word of dialogue. Greg wasn’t convinced he’d even realised he was making the small ministrations against Greg’s leg. It was all a bit close. All a bit too friendly, and more than friendly, but there was no way Greg was going to move. He’d been separated from Caroline for eight months, and aside from the few times he’d been sexually involved with Mycroft, he had very little physical contact with another person at all.

He knew he should put a stop it, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. So he kept watching the film, ignoring how his jeans started to feel tight again. And ignoring the feeling of emptiness which fell upon him every time Mycroft’s thumb stopped moving for a few brief seconds.

The credits began to roll and Greg finished his wine. They sat in silence through the music before Greg spoke. “I wasn’t expecting to enjoy that.”

Mycroft smiled warmly at him. “I haven’t sat and watched a film all the way through for many years,” he said.

“Maybe we should do it another time.”

“I would like that.”

Greg looked down at his watch. “I should go. Is everything okay?”

“It’s fine,” Mycroft said. “I need to do some work before bed, but I’m sure it will come together.”

Greg reluctantly stood up, stretching. “Call me if you need me.”

“I will,” Mycroft said.

Greg smiled at him. “I had a really good time tonight.” Mycroft nodded in response. Greg swallowed. “Right. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Greg,” Mycroft murmured.

Greg nodded and walked to the door. A brilliant night. Except he wanted to kiss him. God help him, he wanted to be close to him. And he didn’t like what that said about him much. 


	23. Fifteen Miles Downriver

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To the few new readers, hello and welcome and enjoy and thank you for reading :)  
> To: oxana, JustLookFrightenedAndScuttle, cltc75, novels (Novels), KingTaran, MoonRiver, OwlinAutumn, Velma, TodayIsWhereYourBookBegins and MisplacedLonelyHeartsAd - you are all so kind and I just hope I can keep living up to your amazing comments. You won't believe how excited I am to show you the next few chapters. But first- this one. I hope you like :-)

_August, 2006_

“Lestrade! Lestrade!”

Greg swung open the door to his office when he heard Sally shouting. She was rushing through the office, papers in her hand. She brushed past him, dropping some CCTV images down on his desk. “What’s up?” he asked.

“There was a break-in at a jewellery shop in Oxford Street,” Sally informed him. “They found a body. The CCTV was switched off.”

Greg stared at her. “What?” He picked up the pictures and reached the last page of the CCTV she’d printed off. There it was. The moment it went off, and the moment it came back on again. There were six minutes in between both sets of images. “How much was stolen?”

“About £10,000 worth.”

Greg exhaled loudly. “God, that’s not good. It’s probably linked, I need to…”

“Linked?” Sally asked, confused.

Greg frowned. Had he not told her about the link? “Yeah, the Kirkcudbright cameras and the National Archive cameras were all hacked in the same place.” She stared at him. “Shit, Sally, sorry, I was sure I told you that.”

“No, sir,” she said.

Greg frowned. “I’m sorry. Look, I need to make a quick phone call. Can you get to the scene with Bullock? I’ll meet you there. We need everything on the security tapes and find out how the cameras work.” She nodded. “I’ll explain everything later, I promise.”

“Is it to do with Sherlock Holmes?” she asked.

“Actually, this time it’s not,” Greg said.

Sally nodded and walked out of the office. Greg closed the door behind her and found Mycroft’s number on his phone.

“Good afternoon,” Mycroft said as he answered.

“Mycroft, there’s been another break-in where the security has been turned off.”

He heard a pause on the other end of the line before the other man spoke. “You believe it’s linked to the MORnetwork?”

“I don’t know,” Greg said. “I only just found out about it.”

“I will have some experts begin work immediately,” Mycroft said.

“If you hear anything I need to know right away,” Greg told him.

“I will share all I can.”

Greg sighed. “I guess I’ll have to accept that, won’t I?”

“I will be in touch.”

“Cheers,” Greg said and Mycroft hung up the phone call. He grabbed his phone and text Sherlock.

 

MESSAGES  
2.57pm: Had a break-in and  
body at Oxford Street. The  
CCTV was all off. Coming?

 

MESSAGES Sherlock Holmes  
2.58pm: Yes.

 

Greg grabbed his phone and keys and jogged to his car, driving to Oxford Street. He despised driving to this part of London, the crowds getting in his way, hapless tourists staring at his car as though he wasn’t supposed to be there. He finally found a parking space and walked to the shop. It was surrounded by police tape, and he thought he saw Anderson walking into the building.  

Sally approached him. “In his mid to late 50s, identified as Dimitri Grasty. They reckon he might have come back to the shop to get something and found the men stealing. He was shot right through the head, dead aim.”

Greg winced. “Alright, what have we got?”

He ducked under the tape, following Sally in. She spoke as the entered the premises. “The employees were out at a retirement dinner down the road. They think this man went back to get something. We haven’t found a family to contact yet.”

Greg nodded and looked down at the body, the bullet had gone straight through the centre of his forehead. “Guy was a good shot,” he murmured. “I’ve got Sherlock coming in, hopefully he can give us something we’ve missed.”

Anderson looked up from the floor. “Undermining us again, Inspector?” he questioned, crossing his arms.

“I’m not trying to undermine you, Anderson. Give me something to help me catch this guy and I’ll tell Sherlock to go away.”

“He was a good shot.”

Greg slid his hands into his pockets. “And?”

“And this guy worked behind the counter,” Anderson said.

“And?”

“And he’s in his mid to late 50s. And we have identified him as Dimitri Grasty. Cause of death: gun to the head.”

“I got that bit for myself,” Greg muttered. He heard a commotion outside and instantly knew what was going on. “That’d be our favourite Holmes brother.”

Sally snorted. “Give me his older brother any day,” she said with a grin. Greg frowned at her tone on his way out. “What?” she asked to his retreating back.

Greg chuckled to himself. Sherlock was pretty good looking he supposed, but he agreed with Sally on this one. Mycroft was the better one, for all sorts of reasons. He found the officer who was only doing his job in keeping Sherlock away from the scene, but Sherlock was ranting about his poor hygiene as the reason his girlfriend left him. Greg grabbed Sherlock’s shoulder, steering him away. “What did I tell you about keeping things to yourself?”

“Why? He should get himself a shower.”

Greg guided him into the shop. “Don’t touch anything without the gloves on,” he warned. Sherlock looked down at the body and around the shop.

“Have you identified him?” he asked.

Greg filled him in on the details he had. Sherlock span around looking through the shop windows and the single bullet hole through the glass. “You’re looking for a man with military training. A sniper. He was there in case someone intervened during the robbery.” Sherlock looked at the body. “I need to see the CCTV,” Sherlock said. “The body won’t tell you much. Perhaps there will be a serial number on a bullet but I don’t expect it will be traceable. The sniper knew what he was doing.” Sherlock turned around. “The sniper was in the room above that café.”

Greg nodded. “Alright. Donovan, you coming over the road?”

She nodded and followed them out, keeping a close eye on Sherlock as they went. They approached the woman leaning bored against the till. “Hungover student with a puppy,” Sherlock murmured to Greg as they walked. “It’s been keeping her up all night. She had cannabis last night.”

Greg frowned, wondering why that was ever going to be useful as they approached her. Sherlock just liked showing off. Greg presented his badge and she sighed. “What?” she asked tiredly, chewing her gum.

“Who owns the flat upstairs?”

“No one,” she said. “It’s empty.”

“Did you see anyone go up there yesterday?”

“I wasn’t working yesterday,” she said. “You need to try the owner.”

“Okay. Where’s the owner?” Greg asked.

“He’s not working today. I can give you his number. He only bought the place a week ago. I don’t know if he owns the flat upstairs though.”

“What’s his name?”

“Seb,” she said, flicking through her phone. Sally took out a notebook and wrote the number down.

“What’s the second name?” Greg asked.

The student shrugged. “It’s just Seb. I only met him for about 30 seconds on Monday. Do you want the manager’s number?”

“Yeah, please.”

“It’s Louise Evans. Hang on.” She read out the number. Greg thanked her and guided Sherlock out.

“I need to see the flat, Inspector,” Sherlock protested.

“I know,” Greg said. “But there’s a process. It’s alright, I’ll get a warrant.”

Sherlock flung his arms in the air. “Why do I bother when you’re so keen on all your protocol? What was even the point in asking me here? Useless!”

Sally rolled her eyes.

“Come on, Sherlock!” Greg shouted after him. Sherlock stormed out of the cafe and Greg followed him. “Sherlock!”

“I have work to do, Inspector!” he called back, hailing a taxi and getting in it. Greg clenched his fist and Sally raised her eyebrows.

“I don’t know why you’re so surprised,” she said.

“Shut up, Donovan. Let’s just organise this bloody warrant.”

 

* * *

 

Greg was still on his computer trying to fill out forms for a warrant when Mycroft called him. Sally was sat on the chair opposite and looked up briefly when his phone rang before returning to her notes. “Lestrade.”

“How is the case?” Mycroft asked. Straight to the point then.

“We’ve got a name,” Greg said. “Have you had any luck with the CCTV?”

“Not yet. Who was it?”

“Dimitri Grasty.” Mycroft fell silent. “Mycroft? You there?” Sally looked up and frowned at him.

“Yes. Dimitri Grasty? You’re certain?” Mycroft questioned.

“Yeah. You alright?”

“I need to go. Will I see you this evening?”

“You want me to come over?” Greg asked, surprised.

Mycroft paused again before speaking. “No, it’s fine.”

“You want me to come over?” Greg repeated. Mycroft remained silent. Greg licked his bottom lip, deciding to push his luck. “I’ll come when I’ve finished work, alright?”

“Very well. See you this evening.”

“See you later.” Mycroft hung up the call and Sally raised her eyebrows at him.

“Mycroft? Sherlock’s brother?” she asked, appearing baffled. “What you doing going round Sherlock’s brother’s house?”

“We’re… we’re friends.”

“Friends?” She raised her eyebrows. “You and that stuffy Government guy are friends?”

Greg laughed. “I don’t know why that’s so hard to believe.”

“Because he talks like he has a plum in his mouth and you don’t?”

“We have a mutual interest,” Greg said, keen to change the subject.

“And what’s that?”

“Sherlock,” Greg explained.

Sally snorted and looked back down at her paperwork.

 

* * *

 

Two hours later and Sally and Greg had found the cafe owner. Louise Evans was leading them through the back of the cafe, past the counter. “Seb? Hardly met him,” Louise said. “We had a very brief conversation where he told me to keep doing what I was doing but that was it.”

Greg frowned. “You got a new owner and he didn’t tell you about the business?”

Louise shrugged. “It was weird, I agree. But I’ve run this place for 14 years so I guess he thought I knew what I was doing.” Greg and Sally followed Louise up the stairs and she opened the door to the flat. “The previous owner – that’s Mahmood Samady – spent three years trying to rent this place out but no one wanted it. It’s a bit cramped, so I don’t blame them really. This is it.”

Greg looked around and put some gloves on. It was pretty chilly, as though the heating hadn’t been on for months, but the carpets appeared new. He and Sally walked to the windows and looked down at the street.

Greg unfastened one of the windows, pointing his hands through the gap as though he was holding a gun. “Direct line to the shop,” he said. A forensics team appeared a few seconds later. “We need swabs of the glass here,” Greg instructed. “And any other surfaces. Did you see anyone come up here, Louise?”

“No,” she said. “Or come down either.”

Greg moved to give the swab team access to the window.

“What’s Seb like?” Sally asked.

“Tall, dark hair, a bit gingery. Pretty fit actually,” Louise grinned. “In his late 30s, I suppose. Tall. He’s quite… gruff. Seemed like the kind of guy you wouldn’t want to mess with.”

“What did he wear when you met him?”

“Um. A black shirt and some black jeans, I think.”

“English?” Sally asked.

“Kind of Irish actually,” Louise replied, considering.

“Have you got a contact number for Mahmood?”

“Yeah, I should,” Louise said. “Let me go downstairs and I should be able to find it for you.”

Sally nodded and let Louise go. She walked up to Greg and looked around. “So, I guess we need to find this ‘Seb’ then.”

“How does no one know his surname?” Greg asked irritably. “Seriously, if someone takes over a business you question them a bit, don’t you?” Greg said a quick goodbye to the forensics team and walked down the stairs with Sally. They took the number for Mahmood and drove back to the Yard.

 

* * *

 

There wasn’t much more they could do that day when Mahmood was not picking up his phone.

Greg went home to shower and change before heading to Mycroft’s. He drove there; the rain just beginning to fall as he left his flat.

Mycroft was no where to be seen when he was let in, so he decided to try the office, knocking lightly on the door. “Come in!” Mycroft called and Greg opened it. Mycroft was sat behind his desk, flicking through some papers. His shirt was rolled up to his elbows, without a waistcoat or jacket, though he was wearing a tie. He put the papers down. “I lost track of time,” he said.

“It’s fine,” Greg replied. “Anything new on our CCTV?”

Mycroft stood and started to walk from the room. “Not as yet.”

Greg followed as Mycroft strolled towards the kitchen. “That smells good,” Greg murmured as they walked in.

“I can’t take credit for it,” Mycroft told him. “A colleague prepared a casserole for me. All I was instructed to do was put it in the oven.” Greg smiled and took a seat at the table and watched as Mycroft knelt down to take the pot out. “Would you like a drink?”

“Coffee?” Greg asked. “I’ll make it, it’s alright.” He got up, remembering where the cups were kept. He turned the kettle on as Mycroft took out a cafetiere and put it down on the counter. “I don’t think I know how to use this,” Greg admitted.

“Quite alright,” Mycroft told him, setting the casserole down on the side. “It’s very simple.” Mycroft stood behind him and handed him a bag of coffee. Greg felt the warmth of Mycroft’s body almost against his back and through his thin shirt and he leaned slightly into it. “Put some of the coffee in…” Greg did as instructed. “And once the water has boiled, add the water and put the lid on.”

Greg laughed. “I can manage that.” He heard Mycroft chuckle and his hand brushed Greg’s back as he moved to open a cupboard to the side. Greg shivered and Mycroft took out some plates and Greg poured the water.

He leaned against the counter as Mycroft dished up the food. “That looks great too.”

“Apparently my colleagues think I work too hard,” Mycroft said, smiling. “But when this is the reward, I don’t complain too much.”

Greg laughed and inspected the coffee. “Can I plunge this now?” he asked.

Mycroft glanced over as he opened a drawer for the knives and forks. “Yes.”

Greg poured their coffee, carrying the drinks over to the table. He sat down just as Mycroft was bringing over their plates. They glanced across at each other as Mycroft sat down and started eating. “Oh this is good,” Greg said. “Please pass my compliments to the chef.”

“I will.” They ate in comfortable silence, Greg filling the gap with appreciative sounds as he ate the food. “Greg?” Mycroft asked after a while.

“Mmmhmm?”

“I must tell you something.”

“What’s up?” Greg looked up, sipping from his coffee.

“Dimitri Grasty was investigating the murder of Tatiana Garzone. Remember the Russian woman your team found dead at a bus stop?”

Greg stared at him. “What?”

“Hadrian Kirkcudbright, the document at the National Archives and now Dimitri Grasty. I’m beginning to see a pattern emerge with a common denominator.”

“And what’s that?” Greg questioned.

“Me.”

Greg blinked. Mycroft. Common denominator. “Are you in danger?” he asked after a few seconds, once the words had started to sink in. “Do you need more security or something?”

“I am not in danger. Not as far as I’m aware.”

Greg frowned and finished his food, putting his cutlery down on the plate. “It’s a lot to take in, Mycroft.”

“I know.”

Greg frowned. “We’ve got some leads to follow tomorrow. Some guy who bought the cafe, but no one seems to know who he is.”

“What was his name?”

“Just ‘Seb’.”

Mycroft shook his head. “That means nothing to me.”

Greg rubbed his face. “God, this case. The rat run was a walk in the park compared to this.”

“How can I help?”

“Just keep working on your end,” Greg said, admitting Mycroft’s contacts and knowledge could be useful this time around. Especially if he was a - what? Target?

Mycroft stood and cleared their plates away. Greg watched him. His shirt had become untucked on one side and it made him smile. So he wasn’t so immaculate every second of every day. Greg licked his lips. So he knew what he was supposed to do. He was supposed to keep his hands to himself. And he knew what he wasn’t supposed to do. He wasn’t supposed to get up and snog him senseless. But this was _Mycroft Holmes_ and damn, if he wasn’t the most enthralling person he’d ever had the pleasure of meeting.

Greg stood up as Mycroft turned on the taps and Mycroft turned and looked at him. Greg leaned against the kitchen counter as he poured in the washing up liquid. Mycroft Holmes. About to do his own washing up.

It was so normal, so very, very un-Mycroft Holmes that Greg couldn’t help himself. He pressed his hand to Mycroft’s jaw and kissed him.

Mycroft didn’t pull away. Their lips stilled against each other for a few seconds before breaking apart, but their faces remained close. They shared the tableaux for some drawn-out moments before their lips met again and neither was sure who initiated it.

They explored each other’s mouths in the kiss, Mycroft stepping away from the sink to press his body against Greg’s, pushing Greg back against the counter. Greg wound his arms around him, not thinking, just luxuriating in the feel of his tongue, his hands on his shoulders.

Mycroft pulled away first, a breathy ‘oh’ escaping his lips as he did so. He looked over at the sink. The water was close to the top and he hastily turned off the taps. He looked back at Greg, his lips apart, eyes cast wide.

Greg reached out and touched his hip, tugging him closer. They shared some brief, light kisses. “This wasn’t-” Mycroft murmured, Greg cutting him off with another kiss. “This wasn’t-mmff, Greg.”

Greg held him tighter against him and felt his shiver as Greg’s erection pressed against his body “What?” Greg asked huskily.

“This wasn’t the plan,” Mycroft managed as Greg cupped his arse, squeezing it.

“I know,” Greg said. He tipped his head back and took a deep breath as he closed his eyes. He looked back at Mycroft who appeared expectant and uncertain. “I know,” Greg repeated. “I know, I know, I know, this wasn’t the plan, but God, Mycroft.”

“I know,” Mycroft said, reaching up and touching the side of Greg’s neck. “I know.”

They stared at each other. Greg let out a shaky breath. He couldn’t bear to remove his hands from Mycroft’s arse, and he felt the other man’s arousal pressed against him. Greg’s own need was tight between their bodies and he knew it left Mycroft in no doubt of how turned on he was.

Mycroft gave him a sardonic smile. “Just once more,” he murmured, and Greg grinned at him.

“Yeah, just once more. I mean, it doesn’t hurt, right?”

“On the contrary, Greg. If it hurts, you’re doing it wrong.”

Greg laughed and Mycroft gave him a broad smile in return. They kissed again, Greg slipping his tongue between Mycroft’s lips. Mycroft shuddered against him.

Greg smiled against his mouth and murmured “But what about the washing up?”

“Bugger the washing up,” Mycroft said, drawing him into another kiss. Greg groaned and held firmly onto Mycroft as he began to walk him backwards, out of the kitchen. Mycroft pressed kisses and nips to his neck as they moved. Greg kicked his shoes off.

“Where’d you want me?” Greg asked.

“Get on the sofa. And take your jeans off now.”

Greg grinned, quickly unfastening them. “Desperate, Mycroft?”

“I’m not in the mood to wait.”

Greg groaned at his words and kissed him hard, tangling his fingers in his shirt. Mycroft’s fingers nimbly opened Greg’s fly, pushing his jeans and boxers down a bit. Greg stumbled back towards the sofa, grabbing Mycroft’s tie and tugging him towards him. Greg pushed down his jeans and underwear, collapsing down onto the sofa. He looked up at Mycroft, breathing hard, and wrapped his own hand around his cock.

Mycroft’s mouth fell open as he watched. “Stop that,” Mycroft murmured.

“Make me,” Greg whispered, rubbing his thumb deliberately against the head. Mycroft walked towards him, straddling his hips and tugging Greg’s head up by his hair. Their lips were a breath apart but Mycroft kept Greg’s pulled head back. Greg pretended to fight it, tried to push him for a kiss but Mycroft’s lips closed around his neck instead, sucking on the spot it met his shoulder. Greg’s erection was pressed between them and Greg tried to move his hips but the other man was having none of it. “Christ, Mycroft,” Greg groaned.

Greg reached for the other man’s trousers, unfastening them and pushing them down as fast as he could. Mycroft stopped the assault on his neck for a second to help, pushing his trousers and boxers down his thighs. Their bodies pressed together, cocks aligned between them. Mycroft moved his hips and wrapped a hand around them both.

Greg glanced down and groaned at the sight, looking back up at Mycroft and kissing him again. Greg’s hand joined Mycroft’s as they moved together, lost in the sensations. Their foreheads pressed together and Greg gripped Mycroft’s arse with one hand, speeding up the movement on their cocks with the other. Mycroft’s heavy breaths filled the gaps between Greg’s eager moans.

Greg dropped his head onto the back of the sofa and looked at the other man, and fuck, “Mycroft, you’re unbelievable,” he whispered. Mycroft kissed him again. Greg felt Mycroft’s hips buck as he let go, and the feel of Mycroft coming over their joined hands was enough to tip Greg over the edge too. They panted together, their bodies relaxing as they caught their breaths. Mycroft’s cheek rested against Greg’s forehead and he held him there. “Mmm, Mycroft,” Greg murmured and Mycroft started to pull back. “No, no, you don’t need to move. Not yet.”

Mycroft sighed and settled against him, his nose pressing into the side of Greg’s neck. Greg’s hand moved from his arse to his back, rubbing in slow circles. Mycroft kissed the side of his neck and Greg smiled.

Mycroft eased off him, taking a seat on the sofa and using a handkerchief to wipe himself. He looked over at Greg. “Would you like to borrow a shirt?” he asked.

Greg looked down at himself and laughed. “Yeah, that was a bit messy… Please. Thanks.”

Mycroft leaned over and Greg kissed him, watching as he rose and wandered to what Greg supposed must be his bedroom. Greg pulled his boxers back on and sat waiting.

He returned wearing a new shirt, without his tie, and carrying a black one for Greg. Greg quickly stripped off his shirt, and caught Mycroft watching him with parted lips. He made purposefully slow work of buttoning up Mycroft’s shirt, enjoying the soft fabric against his skin. He left the top two buttons undone.

Mycroft took a seat beside him, their thighs pressing together and they shared a lazy, drawn-out kiss. Mycroft flashed him a dazed smile.

“Can’t blame us for doing this when it’s so good,” Greg said.

Mycroft chuckled and looked at him. Greg lightly kissed the side of his mouth. Mycroft exhaled and pulled Greg into for a deeper kiss. Greg realised all too quickly how he couldn’t get enough of his mouth. The feel, the taste of him was drawing him in and he was sinking into the texture of soft, relaxed lips, the flick of tongue against his. It must have been a few minutes they sat like that, Greg turning his body and tracing his fingers over Mycroft’s cheek, jaw, shoulder and back up to his neck and into his hair.

He wanted to lie Mycroft down and strip him and map every mark on his body so he could actually work how what it was about him which was so enigmatic and making him melt. If this was falling - _if_ this was falling - then it wasn’t the worst thing in the world. Greg’s hand dropped to Mycroft’s chest. Secure and firm.

Greg gave him one last sweet kiss before reluctantly pulling back.

Mycroft gazed at him. “Greg, I am so very sorry but I need to do some work.”

Greg nodded. “Yeah, that’s fine, I understand.”

Mycroft reached out and squeezed his shoulder. Greg watched him as he dropped his head and licked his lips. “This wasn’t the last time,” he murmured.

Greg frowned, daring himself to believe he’d just heard Mycroft correctly. “It… wasn’t?”

Mycroft looked up at him again, a challenging look on his face. “Was it, Greg? Can you honestly say it was the last time?”

“I know I don’t want it to be,” Greg admitted. “It’s good, Mycroft. It’s really, really good.”

“I know.”

“Just sex?” Greg asked.

“Yes, of course.”

“I feel like we’ve had this conversation a few times now, Mycroft.”

Mycroft smiled stiffly. “I’m aware. I rarely change my mind.”

Greg studied him. He leaned forward and moved so his lips brushed Mycroft’s ear as he whispered. “Good. Because I want to feel you inside me.” He heard Mycroft’s breath catch and Greg kissed a spot behind his ear before pulling back. He traced the outline of Mycroft’s lips with his thumb. “I’ll leave that thought with you for another time.”

He went to move, but Mycroft’s fingers curled in the top of the shirt, pulling him in for a hard kiss. Greg groaned and just as he began to lose himself, just as he thought maybe he’d be able to get it up for round two in about 10 minutes time Mycroft released him. “Goodnight, Greg,” he murmured.

Greg’s face broke into a slow grin as he stood up and adjusted his trousers. “Don’t work too hard,” he said as he walked to the door and began the journey back home.

 

* * *

 

When he got to his office in the morning, he found Sherlock was already there, sat in his chair on his computer.

“Get out of my seat,” Greg said, frowning at him. “Are you on my computer? Get off.”

Sherlock looked up at him. “We need to go through the Kirkcudbright case.”

“That’s fine, but get your skinny arse out of my chair first.”

Sherlock sulked but moved to the other chair anyway. Greg sat down and frowned at his computer. “Have you been reading my emails?” He clicked through his inbox. It wasn’t like he had anything to hide, but it was the principle of the thing.

“They’re boring. It’s all boring. Everything’s boring.”

“Brilliant,” Greg muttered. He hated Sherlock when he was in this kind of mood. Sherlock slammed his fist down on the desk. “Oi! Stop that,” Greg warned.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Come on, Lestrade, what are we missing?”

“I don’t know,” Greg said. “I’ve gone through this about a hundred times. I don’t know.”

Sherlock stood, looking around the room. “Imagine you’re Hadrian Kirkcudbright.”

“What?”

“Shut up,” Sherlock snapped.

Greg sighed and watched him.

“No, don’t just shut up, I need you to bounce ideas off,” Sherlock told him.

“Okay…” Greg said.

“Don’t just say ‘okay’, say something useful. Relevant. For once in your life try and use your brain. Imagine you’re Hadrian Kirkcudbright.”

“I’m Hadrian Kirkcudbright,” Greg muttered irritably.

“He’s working, he’s been working for four hours. And then someone - his killer - walks into his office and stands behind him and slashes his throat. It’s someone he knows, he’s seen them before, he’s not surprised.”

“Staff?”

“All accounted for.”

“Family?”

“Not the wife. Not the brother. Not the kids. It has got to be the staff,” Sherlock muttered, flinging his hands in the air. “But it’s not. Why not? Because they can’t get there quick enough. It’s not them, they’re not left handed - come on, Inspector, work with me! What are we missing?”

“The MORnetwork turned the cameras off?” Greg offered, trying to sound more certain than he was.

“Irrelevant. They’re not his killer, they just aided someone. They brought someone time. But who? Someone who knows about cameras. They know the room, the metal detector, they know the security.” Sherlock gasped throwing his hands in the air. “Security! Security.” Sherlock frowned. “Give me the layout of the house.”

“Layout? I don’t have a layout.”

“Describe it to me.”

Greg sighed, thinking. He mentally walked through the building in his head as he described it. “Hallway, living room, kitchen, dining room, downstairs bathroom, a second living room. Upstairs, landing, office, two bedrooms, bathroom, control room, third floor, two more bedrooms-”

“-Control room?” Sherlock questioned.

“Yeah, where the CCTV goes.”

“Idiot! Why are you only telling me this now?”

“It’s just a control room, I didn’t think it was relevant.”

“Of course it’s relevant! It’s all relevant. You imbecile. How do you get by in life with so little inside your brain? Lestrade! Who guards the guards?”

Greg shook his head. “Who guards the guards? I don’t get it, Sherlock.”

“Why didn’t you tell me the CCTV room is in the house?”

“I don’t know what you’re getting at.”

“The security guards, Lestrade! He was killed by a CCTV operator.”

Greg frowned. A CCTV operator. “But why-”

“Why, why, why, all you care about is why but who, it’s obvious. So obvious. A security guard watches the cameras, he knows where everyone in the house is. He sees Kirkcudbright, who’s not surprised to see him and he sets the metal detector off, but it’s safe because he’s security. And he tells Kirkcudbright he saw something on the CCTV, they get the images up and he slashes his throat and walks back to the control room, calling to say the cameras have turned off, but they’re on now and Kirkcudbright is already dead.”

Greg nodded, humouring him. “That’s brilliant, Sherlock, but where’s my motive?”

“The wife.”

Greg frowned. “The wife?”

“Paid to have him killed.”

“The wife paid to have him killed?” Greg repeated.

“You are so slow. He beat her, remember. Keep up.”

“That doesn’t mean she wanted him dead though.”

“Of course she wanted him dead. Did you miss the part where he used to hit her?”

Greg frowned. “Fine. Let’s go find our suspect then.” He got up, looking for the files.

“What are you doing?”

“Finding the names of the security guards.”

“Sebastian Moran and Laila Jones,” Sherlock recalled quickly. His eyes abruptly widened in surprise. “Oh!”

“What now?”

“Sebastian Moran.”

Greg sighed. “Come on, Sherlock, as much as I hate to admit it, you have to spell this out for me.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Seb.”

“Seb?”

“The cafe owner, Lestrade. And Sebastian Moran, the CCTV operator and security guard.”

Greg dropped the paperwork on his desk. Shit. “This is one of those coincidences where it’s too much of a coincidence to be one, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Sherlock agreed.

Greg stormed to the door and opened it. “Donovan! I need a team looking for Sebastian Moran right now. He was a security guard at the Kirkcudbright house and a suspect in the Dimitri Grasty killing.”

“On it, sir,” Sally said, typing frantically into her computer and not questioning the sudden announcement of a suspect.

Edmund looked up at Greg. “Would you like me to go to the Kirkcudbright house, sir? I’ve met Mrs Kirkcudbright before, she made me tea.”

“Yeah,” Greg agreed. “Yeah, good plan. I saw Sergeant Dimmock around somewhere. Get him to go with you.” Ed got up straight away, jogging out of the office.

“We’ve got a building, sir!” Sally called out. “Not a house, it’s a warehouse.” Greg and Sherlock looked over her shoulder at the map she brought up.

“I need a team right now!” Greg shouted. “Uniformed officers, we’re going after a suspected double murderer. We need bullet proof vests. This guy’s potentially a sniper and likely to be armed.”

The next 15 minutes went by in what could only be described as organised chaos as Greg’s team and others got ready to move out. He was in command on this and calling the shots and he was relieved to see how easily people took his orders without question.

“I’m coming with you,” Sherlock said.

“No way, Sherlock,” Greg said, pointing at him. “I can’t risk it this time, I’m sorry, alright. Stay here and I’ll give you a lift home when I get back, or go home, whatever. But you cannot come, you hear me? I’m serious, Sherlock.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Fine.” He stormed to the door, slamming it closed.

Greg glanced at Sally before looking back around the people in the room. “We’ve got a murderer to catch, hurry up!”

 

* * *

 

Half an hour later Greg was sat in his car, listening and watching his team surround the large industrial warehouse. Aside from armed officers, the space around it was deserted of both people and cars. “No one here, sir,” came a crackle over the radio.

“Check everywhere,” Greg demanded.

“We have, sir. It’s just a massive, empty space.”

“Shit!” Greg jumped out of his car, and hurried into the building. Sally was leaning against the wall shaking her head. Greg looked around the warehouse. It was cold and damp, without any indication of what it might have been used for. He spotted a single poster on the wall and frowned, walking towards it.

It was a plain white piece of card, and words were hand-written on it in red paint.

 _Some other time, Detective Inspector Lestrade_ was all it said. It was so personal that it shook him to the core.

Sally stood beside him and looked at it. “Take this as evidence,” Greg murmured. “Photograph it first.”

She nodded. “You alright sir?”

Greg continued to stare at it. A horrible feeling of self-awareness and vulnerability flooded through him. Those six words were a personal attack. A warning, a threat. It was mocking. Greg could almost hear the laughter coming from it. “Who the hell is this guy?” Greg spat, turning his back from the poster.

Sally shook her head. “It’s just words, sir. It’s a lucky guess or something.”

“He knew I was onto him. He knew this was my case.” Greg frowned. “Right, I’m driving back to the station. I need to work out our next move. Sally-”

“I’ll deal with everything here.”

Greg nodded. “Cheers. Shit.”

He walked out, muttering under his breath before getting into his car. He turned the volume of the radio up loud. He wasn’t sure how he was going to explain away this one.

He drove away from the warehouse, and down a few side streets. He noted the red Mini in his rear view mirror. He indicated left. He had to wait behind a bicycle with no opportunity for overtaking. The bike and Mini turned right. A silver Jaguar was behind him now. Nice car. Shit, how was he ever going to explain how they lost a suspected double murderer and possibly someone who broke into the National Archives? And why the hell was his name on that bloody piece of paper? He turned left onto a busier road. He stopped at the traffic lights. He noted the Thames on his right right hand side. London was stunning.

The setting sun was just starting to blind him and Greg put the sun visor down. He found the car’s biting point just as the lights changed colour and drove into the centre of the road. All too late he saw the black SUV on his left-hand side. It sped towards him, hurtling, not hesitating as it rammed into the side of Greg’s car. He swore, desperately trying to turn the wheel and put his foot down on the break, but the car kept ramming him.

Greg’s car went through a plastic barrier and down, down straight into the Thames. He managed to put himself into the brace position just in time as the car landed in the water and the air bag smashed into his body.


	24. Nothing On The Dry Land

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I was unnecessarily mean with the last update. I am So Sorry to have ended it on a cliffhanger, so I present the next chapter to you less than 24 hours later.  
> So I apologise to, and thank: Jalizar, Velma, GoldenKhaleesi, Spooky831, MisplacedLonelyHeartsAd, JustLookFrightenedAndScuttle, OwlinAutumn, KingTaran and Jaeh. I hope I didn't keep the suspense going too long.

_August, 2006_

Greg’s car went through a plastic barrier and down, down straight into the Thames. He managed to put himself into the brace position just in time as the car landed in the water and the air bag smashed into his body.

He breathed hard, his heart pounded. He lifted one hand to his nose and saw the blood on his hand.

Oh crap the car was sinking. Dark water began to obscure the windscreen as the car tipped forwards. Oh God. No, fuck. He was going to die in a car in the Thames and it was going to be horrendous and nobody was going to miss him. It felt like the car was shrinking, like he was crammed into the tiniest box in the world. His heart was beating furiously in his chest. He was a kid all over again, held under water, not able to make a sound, not even able to find his way out.

No. No, not like this. This wasn’t meant to be like this.

Don’t die. Don’t die. 5. 4. 3. 2. 1. Think, Greg, you stupid bastard.

Through shaking hands he managed to unbuckle the seatbelt. One of his wrists was throwing shards of pain down his body but he ignored it. He furiously tried to open the door but the pressure from the water was already preventing it from swinging open.

Escape route. Need an escape route. Windows. Made of glass. Need to smash it. He looked around the car. Kicking probably wouldn’t work. Car keys? No, not really.

He saw the headrest. He pressed the buttons either side of it, feeling the car tilting futher forward as he wrenched it out of the seat. The water was already beginning to pool around the window. He turned his head to the side, away from the glass, as he smashed the metal prongs of the headrest against the window. It cracked.

He took one deep breath and with all the energy he could muster, he smashed it. The water began to fill the car and rushed into his face. Holding his breath he swam through the gap in the window.

He felt his shirt catch on the glass and rip and he thought perhaps he’d caught his leg on the way out but he had to look for the light and swim up, up, up.

His clothes were heavy and he felt himself being drawn down but he kept swimming up, up and up until finally he reached the surface and panted for breath, treading water for a few seconds before kicking and swimming and pulling himself to the side. In the distance he saw an orange boat. RNLI. Oh God.

He hauled himself onto some steps leading out of the water, lying face down on the concrete. He was lucky the tide was in or the fall would have been even greater. He looked down to where there was a large slice in the right side of his shirt. It was red. He’d cut himself on the window. Weird, though, because he didn’t feel any pain. There was a dull ache in his wrist. He squeezed his eyes shut. The boat reached him, and two of the crew were coming out, wrapping a blanket over him and checking his injuries. He stared down at the water, where his car must be now. How deep was the Thames? Would it have touched the bottom by now? Were there fish in the river? Mycroft and Sherlock would know. He heard the sirens and heard the pounding of feet on solid ground as the paramedics reached him on the water’s edge.

They were asking him his name and his age and if he had any medical conditions, and it was Greg Adams. No. Lestrade. It was Greg Lestrade, he hadn’t been Greg Adams since he was 17. And he was 39 now and he didn’t have any medical conditions, he was a police officer. Detective Inspector in fact, and he felt fine and no, there was no one to call. He was being injected with morphine, two more blankets wrapped over him as they inspected the wound on his side and someone was cutting his trouser leg and that was his favourite pair, and he looked up and saw the massive gash there and he winced as pressure was applied to it.

He was put into an ambulance, and he murmured that perhaps someone should call Scotland Yard, because he was an officer there and maybe they needed to know what had happened.

But no. There was no one else to call.

“You need to relax, Greg, you’re hyperventilating.” Was he? “Breathe in with me, Greg. Like this. And out. And in, come on, copy me, Greg. We’re just going to put some oxygen on you now.” The mask was put on his face and Greg wanted to pull away from it because it felt too restricting, like drowning all over again, but he fought the impulse to turn away, knowing it was beginning to help. He breathed, his hand tensing on the stretcher. “That’s great, Greg. You’re doing really well.” The paramedic was cutting into his shirt. “Doesn’t look too deep,” she said, looking at the long cut on his side. “You’re going to be just fine, Greg, okay?”

The morphine was kicking in, not that he needed it because he didn’t feel in too much pain. Just cold and numb.

He was wheeled out of the ambulance and into the hospital, through to a room where a consultant was there to look him over. He was changed out of his wet clothes, given a hospital gown and new dry blankets. “You’re going to need stitches on your leg, but the cut on your side isn’t as bad as we first thought,” the doctor said. “You’ll have to be careful, it’s going to be painful for a while and you won’t want to move too much. Looks like you’ve got a broken wrist. We’re going to need to get you an X-Ray.”

Greg took the oxygen mask off his face. “I need… I need to give them a description of the car that rammed me off the road,” he rushed out, his voice sounding foreign and shaky.

“The police will be here shortly, but let’s get you fixed up first.”

“He’s still out there, I need to-”

The doctor pushed him back down onto the bed. “-Not yet, Greg. Just let us do our jobs, then you can do yours.”

He closed his eyes and let the staff work around him as they dressed his side and stitched up his leg and gave him painkillers and antibiotics.

He looked up as Sally walked into the room an hour later. Her eyes widened. “God, boss,” she said, walking over. “Are you alright?”

“Not great,” Greg winced.

“What happened?”

“I dunno. I was driving and this nutter just rammed my car right off the road and into the Thames.”

“What was the car like?”

“Big, black SUV thing. I didn’t get a good look at it.”

“We’ve got people looking for the CCTV now,” Sally said, taking a seat beside the bed.

Greg nodded. “I don’t… I don’t know what happened. It’s like they hit me on purpose.” He frowned. “I think I was the target.” Why the hell was he the target?

“You’re lucky you’re not worse injured.”

“I know,” Greg said. “Lucky it barged me on the left. It didn’t just hit me, Sal, it kept shoving.”

“Is there anyone I can call?”

“No.”

“Parents?”

Greg frowned. Dad? “No, it’s fine. I won’t worry him.”

Sally nodded. “What about your ex-wife?”

“No.”

“Greg, I want to stay with you but… I want to catch the bastard who did this more.”

Greg smiled gratefully at her. “Yes. Do that. I’m alright. I’ve got to go and have an X-Ray or something anyway.”

“I’ll call you, alright?” she said, lightly squeezing his arm.

“My phone’s in the Thames, Sally.”

She laughed and Greg grinned at her. “I’ll bring you a phone.”

“Cheers.”

She gave his arm another squeeze and he sighed, closing his eyes and trying to find a comfortable position to lie in.

 

* * *

 

Over the next few hours he took a few more drugs, was X-Rayed (confirmed broken left wrist, bugger,) and given a plaster cast.

He fell into a deep sleep, aided only by the drugs.

He woke at around 6am, disoriented and angry he didn’t know the time because his watch was broken. He lay in the bed, listening to the noises and the pacing and the groaning and the coughing. He had to get out of here and quickly.

He drifted in and out of sleep over the next few hours, being checked over by various nurses who told him he’d be able to leave after breakfast, before Sally arrived, carrying grapes and a new mobile phone. It was only an old one of hers, but it was better than nothing. She’d brought him a shirt, some underwear and pyjama bottoms and Greg didn’t question who they belonged to. “Did you find anything out?” he asked as she took a seat.

“We followed all the CCTV we could, but we lose the car once he gets out of London. The number plate’s fake.”

Greg sighed and shook his head. “I thought that might be the case. It was done on purpose. The more I think about it, the more I think I was the target.”

“Why?”

The MORnetwork. His connection with Mycroft. Moran. All of the above. But somehow he knew, and couldn’t say it aloud. “I don’t know,” he said instead. “Can you give me a lift home?”

Sally nodded. “Course.”

After dressing in the shirt and pyjamas which were both slightly - gratefully - too big for him, Greg followed Sally to the car park. His leg wasn’t hurting and nor was his wrist, but he had a stabbing pain in his side with every step. They retrieved Greg’s spare key from a neighbour (thank God he’d thought to do that) and he shuffled straight to bed to lie down again. His body was beginning to ache more and more.

“Do you need anything else?” Sally asked after giving him some toast and a coffee, and fetching him his laptop.

“No. Donovan. You’re amazing. Thank you.”

She smiled at him. “If you need anything, just call me.”

Greg nodded. She rubbed his arm and left him alone on his bed. He sighed, closing his eyes. He tried to get comfortable but winced at the splinters of pain from his side.

A few hours later, he was woken by the shrill tone from Sally’s mobile phone. He frowned at it. Withheld number. He accepted the call. “Lestrade.”

“Greg, I understand you encountered a problem at work.” It was Mycroft. Greg felt himself relax at the sound of his voice. “How are you?”

“I’m fine,” Greg said, closing his eyes again.

“Sherlock thinks otherwise.”

“I’m fine, Mycroft. How’d you get this number?”

“Where are you?”

Greg sighed. “I left the hospital a while ago. I’m at home.”

“A car will be round in half an hour. You are staying with me. Sherlock’s orders.”

“Since when do I take orders from Sherlock?”

“Very well. My orders.”

“I’m not taking orders from you either,” Greg said, but he couldn’t prevent the smile on his face.

“Oh, really now? That certainly wasn’t the case the other night.” The other night… now there was a memory.

“That’s different,” Greg mumbled.

“Don’t make me beg. Get in the car.”

Greg shivered at the commanding tone. “Can I make you beg later?”

“Unlikely,” Mycroft replied.

“But not out of the question, yeah?”

“Are you coming?” Mycroft asked.

“Yeah. I’ll see you later then.”

“Allow the driver to pack you a bag. See you this evening.” Mycroft hung up.

 

* * *

 

Half an hour later and there was a knock on Greg’s door. Greg pushed his body through the pain as he moved from his bed. The cut on his leg was beginning to hurt when he moved and as for his side, well, he could do with some more painkillers right about now.

He opened the door to one of Mycroft’s drivers, one he recognised from a few trips between his flat and Mycroft’s offices, and let him in. He was carrying a suitcase. “Thank you,” the man said, looking around the flat. “Can you show me to your clothes?” Greg nodded and led the way, sitting down on the bed. “Is there anything particular you would like to take?” the driver asked.

“Just underwear, socks. I’ve got some tracksuit trousers in the bottom drawer over there. And t-shirts in the drawer above. I know Mycroft’s all about suits and shirts but…” Greg trailed off, not really sure why he was trying to justify himself to Mycroft’s driver.

The driver took out a selection of Greg’s clothing, re-folding them all before putting them in the bag. Greg told him where the bathroom was so he could get a toothbrush and other toiletries. Greg looked down at the suitcase. He’d lost count of what had been packed and he wasn’t sure exactly how many nights’ worth of clothes he had. Unsure of Mycroft’s motives, he found the whole thing quite disconcerting. It wasn’t like he had been planning to fall in the Thames so Mycroft could swoop in and be his nurse.

The image of Mycroft as a nurse amused him and he almost laughed until his side reminded him that movement of his abdomen was uncomfortable and sore.

Greg gave the driver his laptop and a few other necessities before they began to leave the flat. The driver pressed the button for the lift. “I’ll get the stairs,” Greg said. The man folded his arms.

“You can’t get the stairs, Detective Inspector.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’re in pain.”

“I can’t get in that lift.” The doors slid open and Greg looked inside. Somehow that box looked more like a torture chamber than ever before and he could visualise himself inside it as it filled with water. “Not doing it,” Greg said. “I’ll meet you at the bottom.”

“You’re as stubborn as Mr Holmes,” the driver muttered, and began to walk to the stairs. Greg smiled gratefully and followed him. The journey down took a long time with every part of his body aching with even the smallest movement. He knew his chest was bruised from the air bag and without being allowed to take another painkiller for one more hour, his limbs were beginning to remind him of what he’d just gone through.

They eventually reached the car and the driver held the door open for him as he slid in. “How long have you worked for Mycroft?” Greg asked.

“Three years,” the driver replied.

“Is he a good boss?”

“The very best,” the driver said.

“What’s so great about him?”

“I was a drug dealer and a thief. He rescued me from an early grave.”

Greg frowned, looking out of the window. That was an unexpected answer. “Why?” Greg finally asked.

“I had skills he said would be useful to him. And I haven’t looked back since. And now I have a new skill money can’t buy.”

“What’s that?”

“Undying loyalty,” the driver said as the pulled up outside Crusader House. “Now, Detective Inspector, how can I persuade you to take the lift this time?”

“You can’t.”

The driver gave an exasperated sigh as he held the door open. “I can see why he likes you anyway.”

“Why?” Greg frowned, slowly getting out of the car.

“You stick to your principles. Even if your principle is to cause yourself more pain.”

Greg didn’t say a word as they began the gradual ascent up the stairs. Greg wished Mycroft lived on the bottom floor. His legs were like lead. The driver stayed behind him all the way up until finally they reached Mycroft’s door. He was shown through and the driver opened the door to the spare room.

“The bed’s been made up for you,” he said. “There’s a TV on the wall there. I will get you a drink and some food and Mr Holmes said he’d be home as soon as he could.”

Greg nodded and shuffled to the bed. The room had red wallpaper and a window which opened out to the street below. The sheets were a deep silky grey, with intricate patterns along the sides. Greg pushed some of the cushions aside, slipping under the cover. His body sank into the mattress. It was moulding around his body and he almost groaned in delight. He had to get a mattress like this one.

He took the TV remote and switched the television on the wall on. There was nothing on but boring mid-afternoon programming, but it was comforting to have some noise fill the void. The driver brought him a coffee, a glass of orange juice and an assortment of sandwiches and fruit. “Do you need anything else?” he asked.

“No, I’m fine,” Greg told him. “Cheers for this.”

The driver smiled and put a piece of paper down beside the bed along with Greg’s mobile phone. “This is the best number to reach Mycroft on in an emergency. If you need anything less urgent, then try the number on the back. See you soon, Detective Inspector.”

“Thanks.”

 

* * *

 

Greg spent the day watching terrible television, making his way through the food and trying to sleep. His body felt in a constant numbing sort of pain which prevented him from moving and stopped him from getting up and making himself a coffee.

It was also uncomfortable being in a strange, albeit very comfortable, bed. Yes, Mycroft had ordered him here, but a lack of understanding of why and what it meant made Greg uneasy.

In the afternoon, he finally called his dad. He had to leave an answerphone message to say he’d been hurt at work, but he was alright and not to worry and to call if he wanted to talk.

At 5.23pm, Greg heard the sound of a door opening and closing. He turned down the volume of the television, listening out. He heard the footsteps moving closer before the soft knock on the door came. “Come in.”

The door opened and Mycroft walked through. “How are you?” he asked, standing by the wall.

“Bit of pain but not too bad considering. How did you find out?” Greg asked.

“Sherlock went to New Scotland Yard in the morning and was informed. I would have contacted you earlier, had I known.” Mycroft pressed his lips together.

“It’s alright,” Greg said. “It’s not too serious, really. The wrist’s a bit of a pain but I’ll take a few weeks off. I’ll be right as rain in four to eight weeks.”

“What precisely happened?”

“Sherlock didn’t tell you?”

“I’d rather hear it from you,” Mycroft said.

“We went to a warehouse Sebastian Moran was meant - wait, did Sherlock explain about Sebastian Moran?”

“He did,” Mycroft confirmed.

“Right. Well. We went to the warehouse and there was nothing there.” Greg paused. He contemplated telling Mycroft about the poster with his name on but stopped himself before the words came out. Mycroft already thought he was being targeted in this nightmare and if he thought for a second Greg might somehow be in danger because of him… well, it didn’t bear thinking about. “So, I left in the car to go back to the Yard. And out of no where, this massive car just barged me and shunted me off the road and into the Thames. And here I am.”

Mycroft studied him. “A broken wrist and bruised ribs and chest from the air bag, a gash to your leg and a cut down the right side of your body from the glass on the window.”

Greg nodded. “Sums up the injuries, yeah.”

“Did you use a headrest to escape?” Mycroft asked.

“I did, actually.”

“Very quick thinking.”

“I thought I was going to die,” Greg admitted. “Took a little while to stop panicking. Apparently I was hyperventilating in the ambulance, but it’s all a bit of a blur. Mycroft, why am I here?”

“I heard about your broken wrist. I thought it might be better if someone could make you meals and keep an eye on you.” Mycroft frowned and pressed his lips tightly together. “And you may be in danger. And you will be safe here until my people have analysed the footage of your accident.”

“Do you think I was the target?” Greg asked.

“Almost certainly, taking into account the nature of the accident and the way your car was pushed into the Thames.”

“Have you got it?” Greg asked.

“Got what?”

“The video?”

“Yes.”

“I want to see it,” Greg said.

“It’s most distressing,” Mycroft said. “I’m not sure it’s for the best while you are recovering.”

“Mycroft, I have a broken wrist and some bruises. I’m not that bad.”

“Nonetheless. You should remain calm and allowed time to recover.”

Greg narrowed his eyes at him. “You’re actually worried about me.”

“Nonsense. Sherlock was worried about you. I am merely keeping an eye on you.”

Greg smiled. “Sherlock isn’t worried about me. I bet he thinks he has no control over whether I’m fine or not fine so he’s probably pissing everyone else at the Yard off instead.”

Mycroft offered a half smile and moved to sit down on the side of the bed. He pressed the back of his hand to Greg’s forehead. Greg looked up at him and started to sit up, deciding kissing Mycroft would be an excellent course of action to take his mind of his pain.

He winced.

“Stop moving,” Mycroft murmured, pushing him back down.

Greg glared at him. “This is bloody irritating, you know?”

“How can I help?” Mycroft asked.

“You’re offering to help?”

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. “Would you like any painkillers? A drink?”

“I want a blowjob.”

Mycroft chuckled. “Is that so?”

“I thought I’d give ordering you around a try. How’s it working?”

Mycroft rolled his eyes, but he reached down to feel Greg’s pulse. “I am concerned about infection.”

“I don’t have diseases. I was tested months ago.”

Mycroft raised his eyebrows again. “An infection of the wound, Greg. Or pneumonia, or goodness knows what disgusting viruses live in the Thames.”

“Well, I won’t give those to you either.”

Mycroft shook his head. “You’re going to be an unbearable patient, aren’t you?”

“Good job you make a sexy nurse to make up for it then really,” Greg grinned.

Mycroft looked sternly at him, but even he couldn’t manage hide the smile threatening on the corner of his lips. Greg grinned and Mycroft shot him an amused smile. “Are you feeling well enough to move to the living area? I thought we could watch a film.”

“That would be amazing,” Greg said. “TV is rubbish.”

Mycroft stood up and pried the covers back. He held his arm out so Greg could lean on him with his good arm as he got up. Mycroft’s arm circled around his waist as they walked to the door. He let go as they walked to the living room and Greg limped to the sofa.

“Let me see,” Mycroft murmured as Greg sat down, kneeling down on the floor and pushing Greg’s pyjama trouser leg up. He inspected the wound.

“Actually, Mycroft,” Greg said. “Can I use your shower?”

“Of course. Would the bath be easier?”

“Yeah, that would be amazing actually.”

“I’ll run it for you and then find something plastic to cover your cast with.”

Greg smiled gratefully at him as Mycroft went into the bathroom. Greg heard the sound of running water before Mycroft went into the kitchen and returned with some clingfilm, plastic bags and sellotape.

They both walked to the bathroom. Mycroft unbuttoned his shirt for him, helping him slide it over the cast. Mycroft winced as he saw the bruises covering his chest and stomach.

“It looks worse that it is,” Greg said.

Mycroft nodded and began to cover his cast in the plastic. Greg watched his long fingers on his arm, but saw how he was looking distractedly at the deep bruising. Mycroft’s attention turned to the dressing along the side of his body. “It’s a longer wound than I imagined,” he murmured.

“Yeah, I properly caught it,” Greg said. “I guess I just saw the gap in the window and went for it.”

Mycroft’s fingers lightly touched beneath his eyelid. “You’re developing some black eyes.”

Greg groaned. “I’m going to look horrendous in a couple of days.”

“Unlikely,” Mycroft said, turning the taps off. Greg smiled at the compliment he thought he’d just been given. “I will re-dress the wounds for you after your bath. Do you need anything else?”

“No, I’m fine. But don’t lock the door in case I get stuck and need help getting out or something.”

Mycroft laughed and checked the water’s temperature. “Towels are over there on the heater and the shampoos and soaps are in the basket. Please call for me if you need anything.”

Mycroft left Greg alone as he finished undressing and he sat down on the edge of the bath, carefully turning around and sliding his body into it. It wasn’t quite as hot as he would have had it – he loved the tingle of water which was a little too warm – but the feel of the small ripples of water around his body was certainly easing some of the pain.

He tilted his head back, closing his eyes. It wasn’t easy to be comfortable while trying to hold a cast out of water. It was heavy and annoying and he’d only be wearing it 24 hours.

He looked down at his chest and the bruises which had begun to turn a deeper shade of purple.

He reached into the little wicker basket and at the small, expensive looking bottles of gels and lotions. He managed to pop open the lid of one with his thumb and held the bottom of the bottle in his mouth as he poured some of it into his hand. He carefully rubbed it against his body, feeling where the muscles were sore and sensitive to the touch.

It looked as though his ‘I want to feel you inside me’ comment was going to be put on hold for a while because there was no way any position was going to be comfortable for the time being. He was disappointed at that.

The scent of the gel opened his airways and he wondered if it was Mycroft’s usual one, or whether he changed his scent regularly.

He looked at the shampoo. Ah. Hair washing. This wasn’t going to be an easy task. He didn’t really want to call Mycroft to come and do it for him. For one, he was too proud to. For two, he was going to be wearing the cast for a while and didn’t want to start relying on Mycroft’s help. For three, Mycroft had never seen him totally naked before and although he’d seen everything there was to see, it was still a pretty vulnerable position to be in when he was clothes-less and in the bath and Mycroft was dressed in clothes suitable for the Queen.

He touched his hair. It felt greasy, and he felt generally unclean. He sighed. “Mycroft!”

He heard footsteps before he replied through the door. “Is everything okay?”

“Can you… can you wash my hair?”

There was a pause before Mycroft replied. “Of course. Let me find a jug. I will be there in a moment.”

Greg grabbed a flannel from the side, using it to cover himself. Mycroft had seen it before, but this was different somehow. Mycroft knocked twice before walking in. He had taken off his jacket, waistcoat and tie, his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

“This is really embarrassing,” Greg mumbled.

“Nonsense. I wouldn’t have invited you here if I wasn’t willing to do things for you. Which shampoo would you like?”

Greg looked at the bottles and handed over the first one he saw. Mycroft rolled up his trouser legs to his knees and sat on the edge of the bath, putting his feet into it. Greg couldn’t bring himself to look at him, so sat holding the flannel in place in his lap.

Mycroft scooped some water into a plastic jug. “Tip your head back and close your eyes.”

Greg did as instructed and sighed as the warm water was poured over his hair and Mycroft began to smooth it back. He leaned into one of Mycroft’s legs, aware he was probably getting the fabric wet but Mycroft didn’t comment. Instead, he poured more water over his head and began to rub in the shampoo. Greg groaned. A low, deep groan, which started to make him hard while Mycroft’s fingers rubbed his scalp.

So maybe a broken wrist wasn’t so bad after all. (He probably wouldn’t be thinking that in a few days time when he was back to living alone and trying to cover his own cast in a plastic bag). Mycroft used the jug to pour away the soap, and his fingers continued to move through his sodden hair. Greg moaned again and curled his good hand around Mycroft’s leg, letting the flannel float to the side. He was aroused but without a desperate desire to have his need seen to. Instead, he rested his wet head against Mycroft’s knee and sat there silently with Mycroft’s fingers stilled in his hair.

He wished he could read his mind the way he imagined Mycroft was reading his.

It was still and easy, hearing the gentle ripples of the water when he moved and the sound of their breaths as the steam hung in the air, filling his lungs with warmth.

Mycroft’s calf was firm and tensed, hairs brushing against the palm of Greg’s hand. And though Greg knew he was getting Mycroft’s trousers all wet, he hadn’t even started to move. Greg tilted his head backwards to look up at Mycroft. He was gazing down at him, his face in neutral mode.

“I’m glad you escaped,” Mycroft said, his fingers moving over Greg’s forehead.

Greg smiled, looking at his face from upside down. “Yeah, I’m pretty glad too.”

Mycroft smiled amusedly at him, before he started to move. Greg sat up to let him. “Call me if you need anything else,” Mycroft said as he stood and patted down his wet legs with a towel. Greg watched him go, and leaned back against the space where Mycroft had been.

His cock was soft again now, the water cooling. Greg closed his eyes. He moved his leg. The image of water crashing into his face as he fought to escape the window flashed before his eyes.

He caught himself before he could shudder and he instantly moved, desperate to get out of the bath. It wasn’t easy with one hand, and he wasn’t used to not using his injured one yet, but he managed to get himself out and wrap a warm towel around himself.

He wiped the steam from Mycroft’s mirror and inspected his face. He could see the bruises forming. He held the towel around his waist and knocked on the bathroom door with his foot. Mycroft returned a minute later.

“Can I have some pyjamas?” Greg asked. “There should be some in the suitcase.”

“Of course.”

Greg followed Mycroft out and towards the bedroom. Mycroft knelt down and opened the case and rummaged through it before finding a large t-shirt and some tracksuit bottoms. “These?” he asked, holding them up and frowning at the garments.

Greg grinned. “My pyjamas not good enough for you?”

Mycroft laughed and held the trousers out so Greg could step into them. Mycroft sat up onto his knees as he lifted them up and Greg dropped the towel as the trousers reached his hips. Mycroft was looking up at him through his lashes. Greg shuddered. It should have been ridiculous. Him standing there half naked with a sodden wet dressing down half his body and a cast on his arm.

But there was nothing funny about the way Mycroft was gazing up at him. Mycroft leaned forward and pressed his cheek against Greg’s crotch. The fabric was too thin to hide anything and Greg’s cock hardened against the warmth of his face. “Fuck. If you’re going to do that, I need something to hold onto.”

Mycroft smirked and Greg shuffled backwards until the backs of his knees found the bed and he sunk down onto it. Mycroft’s eyes were fixed on his as he practically crawled towards him, curling his fingers in the tops of Greg’s trousers. Greg lifted himself off the bed so he could pull the offending clothing down. Mycroft pushed Greg’s legs apart so he could kneel between them. Greg’s breath shook.

And Mycroft took him straight into his mouth. Greg tipped his head back, squeezing his eyes shut.

Mycroft didn’t hold back, using one hand to stroke him roughly, his lips pressed tightly against his length as he moved his head just so obscenely. Greg watched him and reached out and curled his fingers through his hair.

Pleasure built up in his stomach and he knew he couldn’t last. The tension of the past 24 hours had been too much and now the chance to let it go…

“I can’t-” he whispered and Mycroft sucked harder, not letting go as Greg flooded his mouth.

Greg panted between groans, lost between trying to push into Mycroft’s mouth as he came and pull away from the overwhelming sensitivity of it. Mycroft let him go and looked up at him, slowly and deliberately licking his bottom lip. Greg’s mouth opened as he watched. There were no words for how hot that was.

“Stand up,” Mycroft instructed, and Greg did so, though his knees were close to crumbling. Mycroft pulled his trousers back up and stood.

Mycroft’s hand curled around the back of his neck and Greg shuddered as his head was pulled towards him. Mycroft stopped moving when their faces were inches from each other. Greg leaned back into the possessive grip around his neck. There was tension there. Real heat simmering between them. But rather than pull Mycroft in for a rough kiss, Greg nudged their noses against each other. He felt Mycroft’s catch of breath against his lips. Their mouths were a whisper apart, and Greg brushed them together. It was a stroke of mouth against mouth, until he tilted his head and pressed the softest of kisses to Mycroft’s top lip.

Mycroft’s hand dropped from his neck. “Yes. Well. I shall put some dinner on.” Mycroft turned and walked straight out of the room. Greg swallowed and watched him go. Which bit of that was not the right thing to do?

He looked down at his t-shirt and pondered the best way to get it on.

After several minutes and a bit of a cricked neck later, Greg had sorted himself out and ruffled his hair in the mirror. He found Mycroft in the kitchen, stirring some pasta. Greg took a seat at the table and watched him in silence. Mycroft didn’t turn to face him. Greg thought he’d overstayed his welcome already, and it hadn’t even been 12 hours.

They didn’t say a word as Mycroft prepared them dinner. Greg stared listlessly at the table and read the label on the back of an empty bottle of wine.

Mycroft set some pasta and tomato sauce in front of them both. It had been a good choice, Greg found. He could just stab his food and didn’t require two hands.

Greg got through half his meal and realised he couldn’t take it anymore. “What did I do?” he asked.

“Do?”

“Yeah, why are you so angry at me?”

Mycroft’s mouth opened and closed twice. “I’m not angry, Greg,” Mycroft said, shaking his head and frowning with a bemused smile.

“Then why aren’t you talking?”

“I could ask you the same question,” Mycroft replied.

“Smart arse,” Greg muttered, taking another bite of his pasta.

“What would you like to watch?”

“I don’t mind. I actually enjoyed Frankenstein. So any kind of film like that, if you want.”

“American Psycho?”

Greg grinned. “That sounds cheerful.”

“I apologise. Most of the films I have been given are horror films.”

“No, it’s good. I heard it’s a good film.”

Mycroft nodded. “I believe it received mixed reviews at the time.”

“I’m not fussed about reviews. I usually watch easy films. Like Die Hard and Star Wars.”

“I have never seen either,” Mycroft said.

Greg stared at him. “You’ve never seen Die Hard?”

“I believe people watch it at Christmas. I have never understood why.”

“It’s a classic, Mycroft. Give me Die Hard at Christmas over White Christmas any day of the week.”

“Is that a Christmas tradition of yours? To watch Die Hard?”

“I don’t have any Christmas traditions. I don’t have any traditions at all, actually.”

Mycroft nodded awkwardly and finished his food. “Let me redress your cuts, and then we can watch a film.”

They did the washing up in silence, Mycroft doing the washing and drying and Greg putting things away, one item at a time. Mycroft retrieved a first aid kit from the bathroom and Greg allowed him to inspect the cut along his side and affix a new bandage to it. He did the same with the cut on his leg before they each sat on the sofa, Mycroft dimming the lights and turning the film on.

Without Mycroft asking, Greg stretched his legs out along the sofa and over Mycroft’s lap. Mycroft’s hand rested on his leg as they sat back and watched the film.

It was disturbing and humorous in equal measure. Mycroft’s persistent thumb began to rub against his knee three-quarters of the way through. Greg found it relaxed him.

Greg glanced at Mycroft every time he laughed. It was stunning. And he was enthralling when he laughed. When it was over and the credits rolled, Greg quoted the “are you wearing a raincoat?” line from the film. Mycroft was nearly doubled-up. Greg laughed with him, watching his bright eyes and the creases at their corners.

Greg yawned. Mycroft looked over at him and stroked his knee. “You should get some rest,” he said. “I have plenty of work to do this evening.”

Greg nodded. “Yeah.” He rolled off Mycroft. His eyes were definitely heavy. He wandered to the spare bedroom, mumbling goodnight and shuffled towards the bed.

Just as he began to close the door he heard Mycroft’s voice, more angry and aggressive than he’d ever heard him. “Turn up the surveillance. I want a whole team on high alert for Moran. Don’t argue, just do it!”

Greg quietly shut the door and walked over to the bed, laying uncomfortably on his back. He wanted to question what he’d just heard. But sleep overtook him within minutes. 


	25. Alone I Fear The Tide

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, yes, the boys are still alive, it's all good. Going to be fewer updates this week because work is manic and we have a massive work do at the weekend and someone is staying at mine. Apparently I have to be sociable? But that doesn't mean there's a lack of fic.  
> Some lovely people said some lovely things including JustLookFrightenedAndScuttle, Novels, MisplacedLonelyHeartsAd, Velma, Jalizar, KingTaran, MoonRiver and Jaeh - Many cookies and Mystrade-related hugs to you all!

_August, 2006_

_The car crashed into the water. Greg thrashed around in a blind panic. It was filling with water and he had to get out of there and he was going to die._

_The water was filling up around his ankles. It was so dark in there. He was smashing his fists against the window, begging for them to crack. “Help!” he was shouting, but who could hear him when he was trapped in a car under the water and watching it - feeling it - go down, down, down._

_The river, lake, ocean, wherever he was, was bottomless. He was just going to sink to his death. He pounded on the window again. No, he refused to die like this. He wouldn’t do it because there were too many people to…_

_But there weren’t, were there? There weren’t any people out there who cared if he drowned._

_But even so. He wasn’t going to give those people who didn’t care the pleasure of still not caring. The window broke under the impact of his fist. The pain grabbed him in its tentacles but he hit it again and it broke and he swam out, blood pouring from his fist._

_He glanced back at the car._

_He was there. An eight year old child in a red t-shirt in the back seat as the car filled with water. The child stared at him through the back window. “No! NO!”_

_Greg pounded on the window, treading water, desperate, God, no, no, no, this couldn’t be happening, why was he there? Greg was screaming for help, but how could anyone hear him at the bottom of this ocean?_

_The kid was going to die all over again and he was helpless and he couldn’t help him and “Get him out!” Greg was screaming and the car was filling with so much water and sinking and strong arms were wrapping around his waist, dragging him up out of the ocean…_

“Greg-”

_And he was kicking down, trying to reach the car, he had to rescue that kid…_

“Greg, you’re safe.”

_He was kicking hard, swimming, pulling himself down towards the bottom of the river, ocean, lake, whatever, he’d seen him die too many times and he was going to save him this time, he had to, he had to…_

“Greg!”

Greg jolted awake, a yell of “no!” on his lips. He was sat upright, his good fist clenched in the covers. He was mildly aware of his whole body shaking.

An arm wrapped tightly around his waist and Greg turned into the embrace, his shirt clinging to his body, drenched in sweat. Mycroft’s hand tangled in his hair and Greg trembled.

“Nothing is going to hurt you,” Mycroft murmured as Greg clung onto him.

Mycroft was solid and warm. Mycroft existed. Mycroft was real and he was not drowning. The kid was not dying. He was already dead. So, of course he wasn’t in pain. Not anymore.

Greg wiped his face. “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice shaking.

“Don’t be,” Mycroft said, his arms tightening.

“Did I wake you up?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“I’m sorry,” Greg repeated.

“It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine.”

Mycroft’s hand reached for Greg’s cheek and he lifted his face so he was looking at him. In the dark, he was just a comforting, solid silhouette. Greg pressed their lips together and Mycroft responded to the light kiss.

“What time is it?” Greg asked, resting his forehead against Mycroft’s temple.

“Almost 4.30am.”

“Christ, I’m sorry I woke you.”

“What do you need?” Mycroft asked.

“Need?”

“What makes this better?”

“Nothing,” Greg said, his voice lost somewhere in the room. “Nothing makes this better.”

Greg lifted his head as Mycroft moved away. “Lie on your back, Greg,” he instructed.

Greg frowned, but did as he was told, lying down on top of the covers. Mycroft moved close to him, pressing his body against Greg’s side. Greg looked at him. “Lift your head.” Greg did so, and Mycroft slid one arm under his neck, the other extending over his chest. Greg leaned into into Mycroft’s reassuring body. One of Mycroft’s legs stretched out over his.

Greg sighed, listening to the beats of Mycroft’s heart. He didn’t close his eyes, just stared into the darkness.

“What did you dream about?” Mycroft asked.

“Drowning,” Greg said. “In a car.”

“You were shouting ‘get him out’.” Greg stayed quiet. Mycroft didn’t ask anymore questions, but rubbed his thumb against Greg’s shoulder. They lay like that for a while, until the images began to leave Greg’s mind. “I am going to have a shower and go to work,” Mycroft finally said, extracting himself.

“Can you get me a book?” Greg asked. “Any book? I just need something to do.”

“Of course.” Mycroft stood up. “I’ll turn the light on. Close your eyes a moment.”

Greg did as instructed, not opening them until he had adjusted to the light. Mycroft had already left the room, but returned minutes later with a selection of his beautifully old books under his arm. He set them down on the table. “I chose these for you. You’ll have to let me know how good my deductions are. If you need anything at all, I will be in my office for the next hour.”

Greg forced a smile. “Thank you. I’m sorry I was all…” He waved his good hand in the air.

“Don’t apologise.” Mycroft left the room and Greg adjusted the pillows behind his back as he sat up. He switched the television on and flicked idly through the channels.

 

* * *

 

At 10.22am, Greg was woken by a loud crash and the sounds of “he’s my brother for God’s sake.”

Greg groaned. He really was not feeling up to dealing with Sherlock right now. He listened out, hearing raised voices. It sounded like Sherlock and the butler were having a fierce disagreement. Eventually a door slammed, and Greg hoped that would be the end of the disruption. Then the door to the spare bedroom swung open and Sherlock stormed in.

“Donovan won’t work with me.”

Greg raised his eyebrows at him. “And you’re surprised about this?”

“I’m willing to offer my assistance to find the man who knocked you off the road and she refuses to work with me.”

“Maybe that’s because you’re annoying,” Greg said, trying not to grin.

“But I could figure it out if she let me have the video.”

“Sherlock, even I haven’t seen the video and Mycroft has a copy.”

“Mycroft has a copy?” Sherlock asked, his eyes widening. “I’ll find it.”

“No! Sherlock!” Greg groaned, tipping his head back against the pillow. He wasn’t in a position to stop him. And if Mycroft came back and was angry, it was all Sherlock’s fault. Greg was too injured to fight with him after all.

Greg switched the channel and watched the television presenters try and make a syrup steamed pudding.

Sherlock barged back in with a laptop in his hands and plonked himself down on the bed.

“Ow!” Greg yelled, clutching his side and shuffling over to get away from the invader. “Sherlock! Injured here.”

Sherlock opened the laptop and stared at the screen. His fingers tapped the keyboard but he didn’t press any buttons. “Mycroft’s far harder to deduce than you.”

“His laptop’s probably programmed to self-destruct,” Greg muttered, turning the TV off. He picked up his painkillers and a glass of water, downing them while Sherlock’s eyes danced around as he tried to figure out the password. He finally typed something in and smiled.

“Mycroft. So predictable,” Sherlock muttered. “Do you want to know?”

“No, I don’t,” Greg said. “You shouldn’t be doing this, Sherlock.”

Sherlock, of course, told him anyway. “Roderick Hudson is a character from a Henry James novel called Roderick Hudson. The character is superbly gifted, but unstable and unreliable.” Greg smiled. Yeah, that description sounded eerily like a younger Holmes brother… Sherlock shook his head as he searched on the computer. “This is it.”

Greg looked over his shoulder. There was his car, at the lights. It was strange watching it, knowing what was to come. He saw the moment the SUV smashed into his car, saw the damage on the side of it. He was so bloody lucky it struck him from the left side.

The car was pushed into the river. Greg swallowed and took another sip of water to cure his dry throat.

Sherlock played it again. And again. And again.

“Sherlock, I can’t watch this anymore.”

“This is useless,” Sherlock finally said. “Why is this the only angle? Ridiculous.” Sherlock shut the lid of the laptop down. “What happened at the warehouse?”

“There was nothing there.”

Sherlock pressed his lips together. “It was Moran. Moran was the Kirkcudbright killer.”

“We don’t know that.”

“He was though,” Sherlock said. And just as quickly, a change in tack. “What new case have you got for me?”

“Sherlock, this case isn’t over.”

“I solved it, what does it matter?”

Greg groaned. “He needs to be behind bars. It’s not just about solving the sodding puzzle. It’s about putting a killer in jail.”

“It’s all procedure.”

“A bloody good procedure. You know what your next case is? Find me Sebastian Moran. Then you’ll probably find out who tried to kill me.”

“When are you going back to work?” Sherlock demanded.

“In about a week or so.”

Sherlock huffed. “I can’t wait that long. Make Donovan work with me.”

“I can’t make Sally do anything. You’d probably kill each other within an hour.”

“I need a case.”

“And I need time to get better again. Go to Bart’s.”

“I need something to do,” Sherlock said. “I need something specific.”

“Like a project?” Greg asked. “Like the perfume?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t know, Sherlock. I’m sorry. I will try and think of something. Give Molly a ring. Or, I don’t know, take Mycroft’s advice and ask people to give you cases.”

“Effort,” Sherlock muttered.

Greg rubbed his face. “My laptop should be on the floor in here somewhere. I’m pretty sure I have some old cases on there or something.” Sherlock looked at him expectantly. “Oi, don’t be lazy. I have a broken wrist. You want my laptop, get it yourself.”

Sherlock stood and hunted around the room before he found it and sat back down, cross-legged on the bed. Greg took it from him. “Turn away. I’m not having you guess my password again.”

“It’s _custodysuite_.”

Greg groaned and typed it in. He opened up some of the documents on his computer, looking through the things he’d downloaded to work on at home. “This might interest you,” he finally said. “It was a fascinating case.”

And so they sat, Sherlock and Greg, reading an old file from the 1990s which Greg had been told about early on in his career. The files had ended up in his office somehow, and he’d taken it home just after he and Caroline had broken up as some way of taking his mind off the failure of their marriage. He’d completely forgotten about it, having used it more as a practice exercise than anything real.

He and Sherlock read through the notes and looked through the pictures together. Greg was glad to see Sherlock pointed out many of the same things in the crime scene photographs as he had noticed. Sherlock did, of course, have a certain knack for making links where there appeared to be none, but when there were three dead bodies with no seeming connection, Sherlock’s links could prove crucial.

They didn’t really solve it after three hours of working through everything. But actually, Sherlock didn’t seem too bothered about it, because as he said, “there’s not enough data here.” It was the enquiring and the questioning and searching for connections which had kept him interested the whole time.

And just as soon as he’d arrived at Mycroft’s flat, Sherlock declared it was time to go. “Tell Donovan to work with me.”

“I can’t. Find something to experiment on.”

Sherlock looked thoughtful. “Can I have some money to buy livers?”

Greg raised his eyebrows. “Livers?”

“Yes. I can buy all sorts of animal livers and conduct experiments.”

“If you buy drugs,” Greg warned, reaching for his wallet, “you and me are done. I mean it.”

Sherlock reached out to take the £20 note from Greg’s hand but Greg held it back. “Look, I know you’re not going to apologise to Mycroft. Or me. And for some annoying reason you don’t see your drug-taking as anything serious. But I’d quite like it if you didn’t die.” Sherlock rolled his eyes and Greg handed him the money. “Seriously. Buy as many animal organs as you want. But no drugs of any description.”

Sherlock left the room and Greg heard the slamming of the door. Shuffling over in the bed, Greg made his way to the bathroom. He looked in the mirror and was truly astounded Sherlock hadn’t made any comments about the state of his face. He looked like he’d done rounds with Mike Tyson, Mohammad Ali and George Foreman, one right after the other.

He washed as best he could, muttering about his arm and whoever the tosser of a driver was. After brushing his teeth and struggling into some clothes he sat down along Mycroft’s sofa with a book against his bent legs and using one hand to turn the pages. He was grateful the books were old, with worn spines so the pages lay flat and it didn’t require too much effort to work his way through The Strange Case Of Dr Jekyll And Mr Hyde.

After a while he closed his eyes, dropping his head onto the back of the couch.

He woke with fingers softly stroking his temple. He opened his eyes and smiled. “Afternoon,” he murmured, as Mycroft removed his hand and glanced at the book.

“How are you enjoying it?” he asked.

“It’s good. Really good.”

“What did Sherlock want?” Mycroft asked he went into the kitchen and turned the kettle on. Greg smiled. Of course Mycroft knew Sherlock had been there.

“For me to get Donovan to work with him. He stole your laptop.”

“I am well aware. I tend to take my work laptop around with me for that very reason.” Mycroft stood behind the chair. “How are you? Your bruises are quite prominent.”

Greg subconsciously touched his face. “I know. I look terrible. You don’t have to look at me if you don’t want to.”

Mycroft gave him a polite smile and returned to the kitchen. Greg accepted the coffee he brought him. “Have you been sleeping all day?” Mycroft asked.

Greg frowned a bit. “Sorry. I’m really worn out.”

“It wasn’t an accusation, Greg. I’m glad you’re resting. Are you feeling better after your dream?”

“I barely remember it,” Greg said. It wasn’t exactly a lie, but as he sipped his coffee (burnt his tongue, as always) he avoided Mycroft’s eyes.

Greg lifted his legs to let Mycroft take a place on the sofa and put his legs over his lap. It was comfortable like this. Now they’d done it twice before, maybe it was an acceptable way for two friends to sit.

“I have a lot of work to do after dinner this evening,” Mycroft said. “But I would like it if you wished to stay in here and watch some films or television.”

“You sure?” Greg asked. “I’ll leave tomorrow. Get out of your hair.” Mycroft didn’t say anything but he stroked Greg’s knee. Greg looked at his tired eyes. “What’s up?”

“We will discuss it later. I have other things to confirm first.”

“But there is something?” Greg questioned. “Is it to do with my accident?”

“In part.”

Greg frowned but said nothing as he drank his coffee. He put his mug down on the table and reached out to touch Mycroft’s shoulder. His chest and side ached at the movement but he rubbed his thumb against Mycroft’s waistcoat. “You look stressed,” Greg said. “There’s more going on here than you can tell me, isn’t there?”

Mycroft didn’t reply.

Greg sighed. “Do you want a hand with dinner? I mean, only one hand, obviously.”

Mycroft half smiled. “If you’d like.”

“It’ll be good to do something useful,” Greg said, sliding his legs off Mycroft’s lap and getting up. He flinched in pain and Mycroft’s hand lightly touched his lower back.

“What’s hurting?”

“My side, mostly.”

“May I take a look?”

Greg nodded and lifted his shirt up, turning his body so Mycroft could see. Mycroft parted his legs so Greg could stand between them as he carefully peeled away the dressing. “It looks to be heeling,” Mycroft said. “But unfortunately it’s covering muscles, so it hurts when you move.” Mycroft put the dressing back on and his fingers touched a bruise just beneath Greg’s sternum. His hand flattened against Greg’s chest with the lightest of touches and Greg turned his head to watch his disconsolate expression.

“It’s alright,” Greg said, not with anything specific ‘it’ in mind. “I’m okay.”

Mycroft dropped his hand and Greg let his shirt fall back down. Mycroft stood. “I will explain later,” he said, before walking into the kitchen.

Greg followed soon after Mycroft had finished chopping some vegetables and meat, and was given the task of stirring the stir-fry. It was hardly the best job in the world, but it made him feel useful as Mycroft gracefully moved around the kitchen from one task to another, filling up some glasses of water and laying the table.

They sat down, Greg struggling to twirl his noddles around the fork but it was thankfully not too hard a meal to eat with one arm. He stretched one leg out and his sock-covered foot found Mycroft’s under the table. Acting as though he hadn’t noticed, Greg left his toes resting just on top of the other man’s. Mycroft didn’t move his foot.

It was the smallest touch, hidden from view, and yet Greg felt anticipation and even the faintest anxiety in his chest. He never wanted to analyse this too deeply. The little touches, the big gestures. Like the way Mycroft had held him in the early hours of the morning, Greg still so attached to his nightmare that it seemed as though it hadn’t truly happened. But then there were the little touches too, such as the joining of feet under the table. Or Mycroft’s thumb which seemed to enjoy smoothing out an invisible crease on his trousers, just on that spot above his knee.

Greg looked up from his plate as he decided he was fighting a losing war with the last of his noodles.

Mycroft was still eating. He was methodical with his food, savouring bite after bite and not cutting or collecting his next morsel until he was done. Greg found he rather enjoyed discovering his idiosyncrasies.

Mycroft’s foot moved and Greg took a sip of the water to shield his disappointment. Then Mycroft’s whole foot covered his, and Greg was sure that was not an accident.

Greg sipped his water. “You know, Mycroft, if you can find Sherlock something to do for the next few weeks it might help him out.”

Mycroft nodded. “I did give that some thought. The problem is I don’t particularly trust him with anything.”

“Yeah, I know that feeling. I’m convinced one day he’s going to pick evidence up at a crime scene without gloves. I’m always reminding him.”

“I wish I could remember what Sherlock used to do before drugs.”

“I bet he found something else to do,” Greg said.

“Cigarettes. Sneaking bottles of whiskey and rum to his room. Carrying out experiments on his own body. Burns and cuts.” Mycroft shook his head. “It was easier when I was home. He never really enjoyed my company much, but he did love to argue.”

Greg smiled. “That’s not changed.”

Mycroft smiled fondly. “Sherlock finds it difficult to relate to people.”

Greg nodded. “I know. I’ve seen that.”

“And yet he allows you to be a part of his life in some way,” Mycroft said, frowning. “He was willing to stay at your flat and to give you his stash. He’ll never share his feelings, indeed, he tries very hard to pretend he has none. But he doesn’t push you, Greg. Not like he pushes everyone else.”

Greg shrugged. “He can deduce whatever he wants about me. I haven’t got anything to hide.”

“That’s not strictly true.”

“But you know it all,” Greg said. “So does Sherlock. I mean, he’s never used any of it against me. Not yet anyway. Telling me about Caroline’s affair was a bit of a low blow, but I’m glad he did it.”

“Are you aware Sherlock despises our association with one another?”

Greg tilted his head. “What do you mean?”

“Sherlock has incorrectly deduced the depth of our feelings towards one another. He believes when I inevitably break your heart, he will no longer be allowed to work with you. Couple it with Sherlock’s - and my own - belief that sentiment is unnecessary and inconvenient then he cannot understand the friendship we have. He feels he has rather claimed you as his own ‘toy’ to play with. You give him things to do and make him feel useful and, I suppose, worth something.”

Greg pushed the remainder of his food around his plate. “You’re not going to break my heart. It’s just sex.”

“You and I know that. But Sherlock doesn’t understand sex.”

“I dunno, Mycroft. I’m pretty sure he’s tried to scare me away from you. But, I mean, without this…” Greg gestured in the air. “Without this thing between us, I go home every night at 10pm and fall asleep on the couch.”

“I know,” Mycroft said. “It’s beneficial for us both to have some human contact. And I mean that as more than contact with _people_. It’s a physical _human_ contact neither of us has otherwise.”

“Yeah,” Greg nodded. He didn’t completely understand Mycroft’s separation of people and human. But if ‘human’ was about heart and body and connection, then yes, he and Mycroft both needed something like that. Something unique to the two of them.

“Just like my foot on yours right now,” Mycroft murmured and Greg looked up at him. “It isn’t romantic. It isn’t even friendship. It’s a physical connection to the world. You and I make life and death decisions on a semi-regular basis, and we stare death in the face in one sense or another almost daily. Sherlock doesn’t understand or relate to the hollowness which comes from that.”

“But you do?” Greg asked, looking across at him.

“My foot is on your foot, Greg. You may make of that what you will.” Mycroft stood and tipped the remains of their plates in the bin before turning on the taps for the washing up. “Find a film to watch. I will be with you in a moment.”

“Mycroft?”

“Mm?”

“You’re right. What you said about being physical. It’s nice.”

“I know,” Mycroft almost whispered, pouring in the washing up liquid. He said it like he resented it.

Greg left him to it, finding Mycroft’s film collection and choosing Alfred Hitchcock’s Strangers On A Train. He put the film in and stretched out along the sofa. Mycroft joined him minutes later, retrieving his laptop from his office and taking a seat beside the fire as he worked.

Greg enjoyed the film almost as much as he enjoyed the sound of Mycroft working on the other side of the room. The tapping of his fingers on the keyboard was soothing. Twice, Mycroft looked up over the top of it and Greg looked at him as the movement caught his eye. Both times they shared a brief smile before returning to their activities.

As the film ended, Mycroft closed his laptop. “That’s enough for the moment,” he said. “I am grateful to you, for distracting me from work on the evenings you come here.”

Greg smiled. “You’re welcome.”

Mycroft looked up at the ceiling for a second, stretching his neck before he turned his attention back to Greg. “I believe I promised you an explanation.”

“You don’t need to.”

“I do. You look uncomfortable, Greg. Do you require more painkillers?”

Greg nodded, rubbing his face. “Yeah.”

Mycroft stood, walking over to him and pressing the backs of his fingers to Greg’s forehead. “You’ll be more comfortable in bed.” Mycroft held out his arm to help Greg up. He kept an arm loose around his back as he guided them to the spare room.

“I’m fine on the sofa,” Greg protested.

“Then perhaps I would like to be comfortable,” Mycroft replied, picking up Greg’s painkillers and handing them to him. “I’ll just get the water.”

Greg sat down on the bed, wincing. There was a nagging pain in his side and his chest felt tight and uncomfortable. At least it was distracting him a bit from his wrist, which was definitely itching inside the cast. Mycroft returned with the glass and Greg swallowed the tablets.

Mycroft slipped off his waistcoat and tie, hanging them over the back of the chair. He collected his laptop before sitting down beside Greg on the bed. He propped up all of the pillows and cushions, and Greg moved closer to him, so their shoulders brushed together every time one of them moved a fraction.

“I believe Sherlock showed you a video of your accident earlier,” Mycroft said, typing into his computer. “We have found two more angles. They have been shared with Sergeant Dimmock, who I believe has taken over the investigation. Sergeant Donovan was regarded to be too close to the victim. In this case, yourself.”

Greg frowned. Victim. He refused to be that. Refused to be regarded as a victim of a crime.

“This is the first,” Mycroft said, pressing play. Greg watched the black SUV tore down a street, picking up speed as it went. The camera just caught the moment it collided with Greg’s car on the edge of the screen, but not the aftermath.

“And finally, this one.” Mycroft pressed play, but his hand reached for Greg’s thigh in a tight vice-like grip. Greg understood why he’d reached for him. The camera was trained perfectly on that spot of the river. Greg watched as his car was pushed in, almost front-first at the point of the fall. He watched with wide eyes as he imagined his own struggles inside the vehicle, watching as less and less of the car remained visible.

Mycroft’s grip on his thigh tightened. Greg swallowed, a nauseating tension in his head. And then he saw himself swim out, towards the side. The camera didn’t spot when he reached the edge, but he saw the RNLI boat come into view and the crew slip out to go to his aid.

“It doesn’t feel like that was me,” Greg said as Mycroft paused the video. He dropped his head onto Mycroft’s shoulder.

“We have tried tracking the car’s journey through London. It begins near the road the house the CCTV for the National Archives and Kirkcudbright Estate was switched off. There is no CCTV in that area, a situation which is being rectified as we speak.”

“You think it’s linked then,” Greg murmured. “Kirkcudbright, the Archives, the jewellery store. And me.”

“We know it’s linked, Greg, because of the poster left at the warehouse.” Mycroft’s voice was firm and pointed.

Greg swallowed. “I didn’t want you to know about that.”

“You were a target, Greg. And here is what we assume so far. None of this information has been shared with Sergeant Dimmock, and it must remain that way. Our intelligence has reason to believe an operation calling itself the MORnetwork has been hired to put out a hit. Kirkcudbright, the Archives, the jewellery store and yourself are the warning shots.”

“Warning of what?” Greg asked.

“Warning me,” Mycroft replied, closing down the laptop.

“I was targeted because we know each other?” Greg asked, frowning.

“Yes. I have reason to believe there is an informant among my staff.”

“Jesus,” Greg muttered.

“I don’t know who the warning is from, or what they are after. But I will find out.”

“And then what?”

Mycroft went quiet, resting his cheek against Greg’s hair. Greg decided he didn’t really want to know. He closed his eyes, relaxing as the painkillers took the edge off the pain.

“I don’t necessarily think the aim was to kill you,” Mycroft said after a while. “The words on the poster, ‘some other time’, implies a later encounter has been planned. I suppose if you did die, it wouldn’t have been the worst thing in the world as far as their plans went, but they certainly were not aiming to kill you. If they wanted you dead, they would have shot you.”

“Well, that’s comforting,” Greg muttered.

“We will be keeping a closer surveillance on you.”

“I’m a police officer, I don’t need your surveillance.”

“Need I remind you of your broken wrist, stitches in your leg and enormous gash up the side of your body?”

Greg sighed. “Good point. But even so.”

“Even so,” Mycroft said. “Your life and mine is inexorably linked at present.”

“Mycroft, am I safe in my own home?”

“I don’t know,” Mycroft admitted, his voice low. “Nor do I know about Sherlock’s safety, or the safety of your staff. But the problem is being treated as a priority.”

A ‘problem’. Greg shook his head. It was the biggest understatement he’d ever heard.

“You’re shaking,” Mycroft murmured after a second, lifting Greg’s good wrist and inspecting his hand. “Lie down, Greg.”

Greg was about to tell him where to stuff it, but he found his body complied with the suggestion - no, order - and he slid down until he was on his back. Mycroft shuffled down onto his side, holding his body up on his elbow. He leaned forward, pressing soft kisses to Greg’s throat and Greg closed his eyes, emitting soft sighs. Mycroft’s kisses were light and tender as he moved to brush his lips against Greg’s jaw and over his cheekbones, avoiding the bruising covering his face.

Greg turned his head and their mouths found each other, connecting in undemanding kisses. It was only when Greg sunk into the kiss that he realised how much he needed the connection. At the point of nearly dying, he had thought about how he had nothing. No one. But he had something here, some sort of point of physical contact keeping him anchored to the earth.

So when Mycroft’s breath drifted across his lips, it reminded Greg he could still breathe and he wasn’t trapped inside the car in the Thames. And when Mycroft’s hand rubbed the front of his trousers he knew right now, he was in no danger.

He shivered, arching up into Mycroft’s touch. He didn’t know how Mycroft did it, how he unravelled him piece by piece. But the kissing, the kissing was like nothing else. Greg’s good hand rested on the back of Mycroft’s neck. He made soft noises as Mycroft’s tongue pressed into his mouth and flicked and he nibbled his lips. There was nothing forced there. Greg’s brain was in off-mode, unthinking and silent, just listening to his whimpers and Mycroft’s shuddery breaths.

Mycroft’s hand eased inside his trousers and felt Greg’s cock over his boxers and Greg pressed up, groaning. He hated it being a one-way thing, he wanted to pleasure Mycroft too, but his damned wrist…

“Mycroft,” he whispered as the man began to trail kisses over his neck and ever so lightly down his chest, through his t-shirt. Mycroft looked at him, his lips parted, eyes glazed. Greg reached for his face and caressed his cheek with his thumb. “I want to, together, I want… Can I suck you and you…” Greg’s face flushed. “Use your mouth on me?”

Mycroft’s body seemed to tremble as he leaned up to kiss Greg again, and Greg heard him unfastening his trousers and pushing them down. He heard the moment they slid onto the floor and Greg reached for his arse, squeezing through his boxers. Mycroft’s body hovered beside his and Greg opened his eyes to gaze at him. “It’s alright,” he said. “I’ll tell you if anything hurts.”

Mycroft nodded and eased Greg’s trousers and boxers down, letting them fall beside the bed. They kissed again before Mycroft moved so his head was in line with Greg’s cock, and Greg stroked his arse through his boxers, moving his hand so he could stroke the inside of one of his thighs. “Mycroft, get your underwear off and straddle my face,” Greg groaned. The man complied, and Greg shuffled down a bit, grasping Mycroft’s cock and rubbing the head against his lips.

He felt Mycroft shake as he dipped his own mouth to lick Greg’s prick. Greg groaned again, and Mycroft lowered his hips, as Greg tilted back his head, allowing Mycroft to push more of his cock into his mouth. And then Mycroft’s lips closed around Greg’s cock too, and the sensation was intense, his lips tingling as he tried to focus on pleasuring Mycroft, while Mycroft did things with his tongue which were so good they should have been illegal.

Not that Greg would have arrested him even if it were illegal. He’d keep him as his little illegal secret so he could have access to that mouth and God, he didn’t know Mycroft could take quite so much of him into his mouth.

It was dirty, debauched and oh so erotic, Mycroft hovering above him as Greg sucked and licked his length and Mycroft rocked his hips as he fucked Greg’s mouth.

Pleasure built up in the pit of Greg’s stomach, and he curled his toes, groaning around Mycroft’s cock. He came, pools of white light behind his eyes, and everything was beautiful tones of purples and yellows behind his eyelids and Mycroft moved once more, coming onto Greg’s tongue and onto his lips.

Greg relaxed into the mattress, licking Mycroft’s bitter come from his mouth and swallowing and closing his eyes. Tension had all melted away.

Mycroft moved to lie beside him, trailing gentle kisses down his cheekbone. Greg turned his face and their foreheads pressed together, eyed closed. Greg sighed and stroked Mycroft’s soft hair. Greg opened his eyes and looked at them both, naked from the waist down, both still wearing black socks, lying on the bed with Mycroft on his side next to him.

Mycroft shuffled a bit and they were barely touching, just heat radiating between them. Greg made a contented sound, wriggling a little closer so Mycroft’s forehead touched his shoulder.

Everything was just so _still_. So still and easy. Mycroft’s breath brushed against his arm with every exhale and Greg hardly felt the parts of him which had caused him pain while blood cells rushed around his body trying to cure him.

He yawned and he felt the mattress move as Mycroft sat up and pressed a kiss to his chin and then finally his mouth. Greg looked at him tiredly.

“You’re going to do more work, aren’t you?” Greg murmured, holding Mycroft’s chin between his thumb and index finger.

“I am,” Mycroft said, but he kissed Greg sweetly before getting up and dressing. He helped Greg into some pyjama trousers. “Would you like me to bring you anything?”

“No, I’ll just sleep,” Greg said. “I’ll try and leave sometime before you get back tomorrow.”

Mycroft nodded. “You’re still welcome here. Any time, any day, if you need me.”

Greg smiled at him. “Cheers.”

Mycroft smiled back and turned the light off as Greg settled under the covers. Mycroft quietly closed the door behind him.

Greg smiled to himself, still feeling Mycroft’s lips against his own. He pondered the new development as he began to dose. As if someone asked “so what exactly is the nature of your relationship with Mycroft Holmes?” And the answer was it was a physical one. A sexual relationship, which had developed into a physical one, with more than just orgasms and frantic kisses.

It was nice, was what it was. It was good. 


	26. Night Won't Take Me In Its Arms

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Work has been manic and exhausting. Writing Mystrade has helped. My apologies if everything feels a tad repeated and lacking in action. Or maybe it doesn't and I'm just having self-doubts? Anyway, I hope you enjoy the latest offering.  
> This is for JustLookFrightenedAndScuttle, KingTaran, day_dream_girl, MoonRiver, Jaeh and Velma. You guys have been so loyal to this I could cry!

_August, 2006_

In the morning, the same driver as before helped Greg with his things before driving him back to his flat. Mycroft had left early and Greg scribbled out a note saying: _Thank you for letting me stay. It really helped. Talk soon._

It was just a few words, which hardly said thank you at all but it was good enough for now. He knew Mycroft knew anyway. And it was good not to seem too grateful, too needy.

Greg managed to shower and lie on the sofa, watching pointless television and letting his mind switch off.

At lunchtime, Sally visited. She brought bags full of supermarket shopping, stocking up Greg’s fridge with plenty of easy-to-cook meals. She sat down on his sofa.

“How are you feeling?” she asked, looking at him.

“Not brilliant, but better. How’s the investigation going?”

“It’s stalled,” she admitted. “We can’t get any details on the car or where it came from or where it went or anything. There’s no leads going anywhere. And we tried everything to find Moran and it’s like he barely exists. The Kirkcudbrights took him on someone else’s advice, but even that person has vanished.”

Greg sighed. “So, that’s it then.”

Sally shrugged. “Just get better, boss. There’s nothing else you can do right now.”

And that was the theme of Greg’s day, when he received a phone call from Edmund who told him he went to the Kirkcudbright house and found nothing. “There’s nothing we can do, boss,” he said.

And Carter called too and told him he’d kill the bugger who knocked him into the Thames if they could find him. “We’ve done all we can, mate, but we’ve run into a brick wall.”

Dimmock, who Greg had barely spoken to, dropped him an email on his personal account which said “we’ve had to suspend the case for now. But we’ll keep our eyes and ears open.”

By the end of the day, Greg was tired of hearing how impossible the case was. He text Mycroft to say he was feeling a bit fed up, but he didn’t hear anything. In one way it was comforting, thinking maybe Mycroft hadn’t run into a brick wall. That maybe he was still trying.

 

* * *

 

_September, 2006_

Two days later and Greg was going stir crazy in his flat. Which is why, when there was a knock on the door, he got his hopes up it was Mycroft, or even Sherlock would have been better than the monotone and silence.

But he was stunned to see his dad there.

Christophe Lestrade looked older than the last time Greg had seen him, but tanned and healthy in a dark green cardigan and smart grey trousers. He had bright green eyes. Greg’s mother had blue eyes. It had always been the stark reminder that Greg’s dark brown ones didn’t quite fit in. That he was never really one of them. “Come in,” Greg murmured, stepping aside. “What are you doing here?”

“Well, I couldn’t get through to you. Your phone kept going to voicemail, so I thought I would come straight over.”

Greg frowned for a second before realisation smacked him in the face. “Oh, I’m sorry. I gave you my old number. That phone is in the Thames. I meant to give you the new number but… I was pretty out of it.”

“Not to worry, Greg,” his dad said, looking around. “This is a nice flat. Little out of your price range, perhaps?”

“A friend of mine had some contacts,” Greg said, turning the kettle on.

“I see. How is Caroline?”

“She had a baby with her new partner. They’re getting married in February.”

His dad sighed, but didn’t comment. Greg handed him a tea and sat down with a coffee.

“How are your injuries?”

“Healing,” Greg replied. “I’ll be back at work in a week. I’m going a bit mad to be honest.”

“Have you got a girlfriend?” Straight to the chase then…

“No, I haven’t. How’s Rosa?”

“Very well. Looking after the dogs and the chickens as we speak. Wonderful woman, Greg, you should come and meet her.”

“I will sometime.”

His dad smiled coolly. Greg looked down at his coffee. “I haven’t got a spare room-”

“-I booked a hotel,” his dad cut him off.

“Oh,” Greg said. “That’s alright then.”

“Have you visited your mother’s grave, Greg?”

Greg frowned and looked up. “No.”

“When was the last time?”

“Probably last time you were here.”

“Five years ago.”

Greg nodded. “Yeah, then.”

His dad sighed, shaking his head. “You should visit her, Greg.”

“It’s just a grave, dad.”

“I dread to think of how overgrown it has become.”

“Mum hated cemeteries,” Greg said by way of an explanation.

“Still, no excuse. There she lays, and there she should be accorded due respect.”

“I’ve been busy.”

“Yes, I can see that,” his dad said, looking pointedly at his cast. “Honestly, Greg, the divorce. You were a perfect couple, so happy on your wedding day. What did you do wrong?”

Greg bit his lip. “I didn’t do anything wrong. Circumstances went wrong. Our relationship wasn’t working anymore.”

“Working too hard?”

“Like you told me to, dad,” Greg muttered bitterly.

“Don’t take that tone, Greg.”

“Sorry. Look, yeah, I work hard. I’m a DI now and I reckon maybe in with a shot of DCI one day. So, yeah, maybe I was 50% responsible for our marriage failing, but so was she.”

“But you have not met anyone else?”

“No.”

“You’re going to end up alone, Greg. Alone and miserable, just like you were when we took you in.”

Greg stared down at his knees. This is why he hated conversations with his dad. It always went back to his childhood, a reminder he should be more grateful for what the Lestrades did for him. Well, he was grateful for his mother. She was kind, though not altogether physically affectionate. She taught him to cook, taught him to clean up his scrapes and how to treat women. His dad expected good grades, good posture and good manners. He was brisk. He’d never wanted children. And when they did meet, and rare though it was, Greg always felt he never particularly wanted him at all. So it wasn’t unusual to feel unwelcome, when 50% of the people who claimed they wanted him enough to adopt him hadn’t been particularly forthcoming in that want.

Greg looked at his dad. “So, how’s the farm?”

“Wonderful. We are very self-sufficient. Eggs and milk by the bucketful.”

“That’s really great.”

“It’s much better in France than London. London was all very well when we had you, but it was your mother’s home, not mine.”

“I like London.” Greg paused before adding, “I am grateful you came.”

“Thank you.”

“I’m fine though,” Greg insisted.

“You have friends?”

Greg rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I have friends.”

“You never really had friends at school, Greg. It worried me. I remember at the wedding how much of the congregation were Caroline’s relatives and acquaintances.”

“I have friends, dad. Sally brought me loads of food and gave me a new phone and Mycroft let me stay at his for a few days.”

His dad nodded. “Good. I’m glad that’s the case.”

“Is there anything you want to do while you’re here?”

“I want to visit your mother’s grave.”

Greg nodded. “We can go now if you want? We’ll have to get the tube, I can’t drive.”

His dad stood. “Off we go then.”

Greg put some shoes on. It was difficult to put a jacket on with the cast in the way, but gratefully the weather wasn’t too cold. They walked in silence to the nearest station, Greg using his Oyster card and his dad buying a travelcard.

The tube was thankfully quiet and Greg’s dad read the Metro newspaper while they travelled. They walked out into the sun and made the silent walk past the rows of graves until they reached the final spot of Alice Lestrade.

It was a bit overgrown, but nothing a bit of clearing couldn’t cure. They stood and looked at it.

“I cannot believe she has been gone more than 20 years,” Greg’s dad murmured, kneeling down to remove a dandelion. Greg folded his arms as he watched.

They stayed quiet for the next 10 minutes, Greg taking only a few of those to think about his mum. She used to go to him when he had the nightmares. And she used to take him to school and pick him up. She even took him to his first Arsenal game. So it would have been nice if she’d lived longer. It would have been good if she had seen him settle down with Caroline and find a good job.

Greg’s dad stood and sighed. “Shall we go and get a cup of tea?”

Greg led him out of the cemetery and they found a tea room a few streets away. They shared a pot of tea and some toasted teacakes. Greg’s dad buttered Greg’s teacakes for him.

“I remember the day when we first met you. You were a stubborn, obnoxious child.”

Greg laughed despite himself. “Cheers.”

“Quietened down though, once we got you home. You couldn’t have said more pleases and thank yous if you’d tried. You were keen to impress us.”

“I was tired of moving around,” Greg admitted. “I lost count of how many different homes I’d been to. I wanted one to stick.”

“Despite appearances, Greg, I am very proud of what you have achieved in the police force. Your mother would have been too. It’s good of you to call me dad, although I know you don’t find it easy.”

Greg looked down at his drink and stirred it.

“It was your age which was the problem,” his father continued. “You were 12 when we adopted you, and you were at the age where you genuinely didn’t need anyone else. You’d got by that long without parents, why did you need them now? Greg, is everything okay?”

Greg looked up at him. There was true concern in his green eyes. Greg nodded. “I haven’t really given anything much thought to be honest. Things aren’t…” He took a bite of his teacake as he tried to find a way to phrase it. “Things aren’t brilliant, I guess. But I love my work. It’s the best thing I could have done. And I’m pretty good at it too, although there’s this guy who comes in and solves all my cases and makes me feel like an amateur.” Greg frowned. “He’s a drug addict. And he drives me up the wall, but I like him. He gives me something to do.”

“Someone to care about,” Greg’s dad murmured as he poured more tea. “You are stubborn, and you act with your heart and not with your head. And you are hot-headed. But you are a kind man.” He reached out and touched Greg’s arm. Greg looked down at the contact.

“You and I have never really got on,” his dad said thoughtfully. “We’re very different. Both very driven, but we drive it in different ways. It’s why I ran my own business. I liked to do things my way, and not as part of a team. But you’re a leader, Greg. People follow you. And on the day we took you home, if someone had said that scared little child was going to turn into a brave and upfront human being, I would have thought they were crazy.”

Greg smiled a bit.

“You’re not scared anymore, Greg. And yes, I think it’s a pity you got divorced. But you need to find someone who loves you.”

“People keep telling me that,” Greg muttered. “But I don’t really think…” He shrugged. “I work too hard. I know I do. But I love my work.”

Greg’s dad smiled at him. “I am proud of what you have done with your life. So next time you and I have a big argument, please try to remember that.”

Greg smiled and patted his dad’s arm. “You too.”

They grinned at each other and finished their tea. They went for a walk around London during the day. Greg’s leg still hurt a bit so they sat in St James Park and talked about France, the farm, Rosa and Nicolas Sarkozy.

At 5.23pm, Greg’s dad went to meet some old friends from when he used to live in London and Greg made his way back to his flat. He made some pasta and tipped in a tomato sauce which he ate in front of the TV.

Mycroft called at 7.05pm. “Good evening. How are you feeling?”

Greg muted the TV. “Not bad. Saw my dad today.”

“How is he?”

“He’s good. You alright?”

“Exhausted. I’m sorry I haven’t been in touch sooner, this is the first time I’ve had five minutes to myself.”

“It’s alright. I didn’t expect you to call or anything.”

“I wanted to ring and say we are working tirelessly to find out who hurt you.”

Greg smiled a bit. He knew it. “Cheers.”

“You may notice some people around your crime scenes in the next few weeks. They are added security for both you and Sherlock. Sherlock will undoubtedly notice their presence and he will rebel in a way only my brother can. Will you keep an eye on him?”

“Yeah, not a problem. I don’t need security though.”

“I wish that were true,” Mycroft murmured. “But until we know the full extent of this, I am taking no chances on our safety.”

Our safety. Greg, Mycroft and Sherlock. When had they become an our? A unit.

“I must go,” Mycroft said. “I will probably be home tomorrow. I will visit you on the way home. Goodnight, Greg.”

“Night, Mycroft.”

Mycroft hung up and Greg sighed.

 

* * *

 

_A tide was washing over his bed, dragging it out to sea. Greg was stood in the centre of it, screaming as he was surrounded by only miles and miles of ocean._

_Alone. In the centre of a vast and expanding sea, cold and shivering. With only his thoughts for company._

 

_Sherlock was lying on Greg’s floor in a red t-shirt with two syringes in his left arm. Greg was slapping his face, desperately trying to wake him up. Blood pooled from his head and Greg’s arms were covered in it._

  


Greg woke up twice from nightmares the day after he saw his dad. He didn’t see that eight-year-old child in either dream. He put it down as a good night’s sleep.

He went to St Pancras International Station to see his dad get on his Eurostar train home.

Mycroft knocked on his door that evening.

“Hi,” Greg smiled as he opened the door. Mycroft managed a smile. His shirt was unusually creased and his eyes had dark circles beneath them. Greg thought he might just fall down any second. “Come in.”

Mycroft’s head and shoulders hung down as he trudged over to Greg’s sofa, collapsing into it and pressing two fingers to his forehead.

Greg stared at him. “When was the last time you slept?”

“I don’t remember,” Mycroft said looking up at him. “Are you well?”

“Yeah, I’m alright. Not that I mind, but why are you here? You should be in bed.”

“I wanted to check up on you.”

Greg sat down beside him. “I don’t need checking up on, Mycroft. Have you eaten?”

“No.”

“Good, neither have I. I’ll order a takeaway and then I’m getting your driver to take you home.”

Mycroft’s cheek dropped onto Greg’s shoulder. Greg smiled affectionately and pressed his cheek against Mycroft’s hair as he rang for a Chinese. He ordered a selection of courses before turning his attention back to Mycroft.

“Do you want a nap before the food comes?” Greg asked, trying to get a good look at his face. “You can sleep on my bed. It’ll be a good 40 minutes before it gets here.” Mycroft’s fingers curled in Greg’s shirt. “Is that a no to the bed then?” Greg asked, smiling. “Alright, hang on.”

Greg leaned forward to grab the TV remote and Mycroft made a Sherlock-like huff as he moved. Greg turned the television on to keep himself occupied, and opened his arm out. “Right, come here. My chest doesn’t hurt so much anymore.”

Mycroft tilted his body back into him, dropping his head back onto Greg’s shoulder. Greg wrapped his arm around him and rested his cheek against the man’s hair. He seemed to be asleep just moments later.

Greg relaxed against Mycroft as he curled into him. The news was on but he hardly watched it. Instead he concentrated on Mycroft, his sleepy breaths and the way he had become a dead weight against Greg’s side. His fingers remained curled in his t-shirt. Greg wanted to block the questions - of which there were many - out of his head. He didn’t want to ask why Mycroft had been so desperate to see him even when he was practically a zombie at this moment. It was just enough he had come, and just enough he trusted Greg enough to fall asleep on him.

Greg shifted him slightly and Mycroft moved with him, his body adjusting to Greg and if anything, pressing in closer towards the warmth of his body. Greg stroked his fingers through his hair, gazing at his eyelids and his lips.

We won’t talk about it anymore, Greg thought. We won’t talk about what this means, or if it’s just sex or just physical or if there’s that bloody ‘sentiment’. We’ll let it be and let it lie.

It was whatever it was anyway. It had got to that stage long before this moment. Who needed to label everything anyway? Who decided you had to have a conversation about what you felt?

They were two people, two lonely people who’d found each other in the chaos of their lives. And if they had to cling to each other to find a way through the chaos and make it seem slightly less daunting and less overwhelming then that was okay. It was absolutely brilliant, in fact.

Because where would Greg be now, without Mycroft in his life? How many nights would he have put his back out in his chair at work because there was nothing to look forward to at home? How many days off would he have spent working and drinking too much and trying not to ponder the pointlessness of his life? When all he had was work, and those he worked with.

He was stupid to have let his life get like that. To keep everyone he knew at an arm’s length because they’d all go and leave him eventually. Everyone always did. He knew Mycroft would too.

But for now, for the time being, he’d allow this. He’d bathe in it. Because God knows, Mycroft would wake up one day and realise Greg was just a person without any super powers. All he had was his skin and a fucked up childhood. So what could he ever offer anyone except his body?

He held Mycroft tighter against his chest. And this man was beautiful.

A knock came at the door and Mycroft woke with a start. Greg smiled at him. “It’s just the takeaway.” Greg got up and paid for the food and Mycroft helped him lay the boxes out along the table. Greg brought some plates and cutlery in. “You feeling any better?”

“Mildly,” Mycroft murmured. “Are those won tons?”

“I think so,” Greg said, piling food on his plate.

“I was in South Korea,” Mycroft said out of the blue.

Greg stared at him. “You were where?”

“South Korea, in East Asia. It is a country of 100,032 square miles with a population of approximately 48,846,823.”

Greg snorted. “Mycroft, I know where South Korea is.”

“Of course, I was just putting it into context.”

Greg laughed and savoured a prawn cracker. “Go on then. Tell me about South Korea.”

“Ban Ki-moon is expected to be the Secretary-General of the United Nations. He is South Korean, and the first person from Asia to hold the position for more than 30 years.”

“Good for him,” Greg murmured. “What did that have to do with you?”

“I was on the vetting panel.”

“And how good was he?”

“He sees himself as a harmoniser, a balancer and a mediator. Supporters believe he is all of those things and a good administrator.”

“And what do you think?” Greg asked, looking at him. Greg didn’t care what the world thought. He cared what Mycroft thought.

“He is too low-profile and uncharismatic to lead in difficult times. But he is all of those other things.”

“No one’s perfect,” Greg said, putting some duck and hoisin sauce on a wrap.

“Quite. He performed admirably under intense scrutiny.”

“How scrutinising were you being?” Greg grinned.

“He hardly knew I was in the room,” Mycroft said.

“But you deduced him, right? You weren’t there to question him, you were there to analyse him.”

Mycroft gave him a secretive smile. “Why would you assume these things about me, Greg?”

“Maybe because I know you have super powers.” Greg wiped a bit of sauce from Mycroft’s top lip with his thumb and turned back to his food before Mycroft could react to the touch.

“He will be confirmed in the post in October,” Mycroft said.

“Then I look forward to seeing the result of your long hours on the news.”

Mycroft smiled warmly, if not tiredly at him. Greg grinned and passed the prawn crackers to Mycroft. He took one and ate it.

“I’m going back to work next week,” Greg told him. “I can’t stand being cooped up in here anymore. I can feel my brain dribbling out of my ear from daytime telly.”

“You could read.”

“I don’t have any books.”

“You should have taken some from mine,” Mycroft said. “I’ll bring some over for you.”

“Thank you.”

“How did you find Dr Jekyll And Mr Hyde?”

“It was good. I knew the story a bit before, but it was the first time I read it.”

“You must find my interest in Gothic horror incredibly tedious.”

“Why would I think that?” Greg grinned. “I like it about you. It’s interesting. I mean, it’s about more than being scared, right? That’s why you like it?”

“There are layers and meanings, yes.”

Greg nodded. “I know it’s easy to think I’m a bit stupid because compared to you and Sherlock I am, but-”

“-Don’t finish that sentence, because it’s absurd.”

Greg looked at Mycroft, surprised by his abrupt tone.

“I don’t think you’re stupid,” Mycroft continued. “So, let’s not compare your mind to mine and Sherlock’s, shall we?”

Greg nodded. “Alright then.”

Mycroft put his plate down and reached out, stroking his index finger against Greg’s temple. Greg looked at him and he dropped his hand.

“I would like to kiss you,” Mycroft murmured. “Because it has been a few days, and I’m going to be busy for a while, and I’m not sure when I’ll be able to do it again.”

Greg’s breath caught in his throat. It was a lot more forward than he’d expected, but he put his plate down without question and closed the gap between them. Greg wrapped his hand around Mycroft’s cheek and kissed him.

He got lost in the sensations as their lips moved easily against each other, a familiar feeling now, Mycroft’s mouth. Soft and warm. It was a slow burn of a kiss, starting with the gentle touches, the hesitant flicks of tongue against lips which disappeared again in a fraction of a second. The drawing of one lip between two others, the releasing of it. The drift of Mycroft’s breath against Greg’s mouth as they parted before moving together again. Soft pressures, harder, then soft again. Nothing building, nothing needy, just the sharing of contact.

Their bodies only touched in two places. Greg’s palm to Mycroft’s cheek and their lips, but the heat there was palpable. All emotion, all feeling, all - there was that word again - sentiment, was about the physical. It was about the touching of their mouths, the touch of tongue against another, the pleasurable nip of tooth against compliant lip.

And all too soon it was over, and Mycroft’s face was relaxed, but also half asleep. Greg kissed the corner of his mouth.

“Come on,” he said reluctantly. “It’s time to put you in a car and get you home.”

Greg let Mycroft lean against him a little as he walked with him down the stairs. The car was waiting for him and Mycroft slid onto the seat. His hand gripped Greg’s good arm and he looked at him. “Thank you for the food,” Mycroft murmured.

Greg smiled at him. “You’re welcome.” He shut the door and watched the car drive away. And there it was. Greg was crazy about Mycroft Holmes. And when Mycroft inevitably ended it all, it was going to hurt like hell.

 

* * *

 

_Greg reached out to hold onto the headboard as Mycroft thrust inside him. He curled his toes, groaning. Mycroft’s face, lost in pleasure, was the sexiest thing he’d ever seen._

  


Greg woke at 12.01am. He looked at the time. That was a great dream. He shuffled to get comfortable and drifted back to sleep.

 

_The child was dead, covered in blood but still screaming._

  


The image was burned into Greg’s brain when he woke at 3.32am. He didn’t even bother trying to get back to sleep.

 

* * *

 

Greg was back at work. It wasn’t easy not being able to drive, but he was managing to do most things he needed to do, albeit more slowly. Typing with one hand was a pain. He could sign his name, but he couldn’t hold the paper still with his left, so it wasn’t simple.

He had a lot to catch up on. Too much. But even without Moran, he was looking to get one conviction in the Kirkcudbright case. Which was why he was fuming about when he realised no progress had been made since his injury.

Greg stormed out of his office, the door swinging open and smashing into the wall. “Has anyone got the documents on Mrs Kirkcudbright’s bank accounts?” Greg looked around at everyone’s blank expressions. “Anyone? Has anyone thought do that?” They continued to stare. “Jesus Christ, do I have to do everything? Do I take a few weeks off and everyone stops thinking for themselves?”

Greg slammed his door behind him as he went back to his computer. Fucking. Actual. Hell. And these people were supposed to be police officers.

So Greg did everything for himself by himself, working late into the night. His team had been avoiding his office all day, leaving him to it. Perhaps they knew how angry he was. Perhaps they didn’t think he should have been at work at all. They’d made the right decision anyway.

He was tired and frustrated, and the paperwork was taking him double the amount of time it should.

 

* * *

 

_Greg was in a room studying a crime scene. There was a body on the centre of the floor, the person’s face wrapped in a black bin liner._

_The room was a perfect square._

_Then the door slammed shut. And water began to seep underneath it._

_Greg pounded on the door, tried to smash the window with a fire extinguisher. But there was no escape._

 

* * *

 

It took a few days for the warrants to come through. ‘Unnecessary procedures’ Sherlock would have called it. But it gave Greg access to Mrs Kickcudbright’s bank statements, which he printed off while Sally was in the office. They looked over them together over a three hour period.

It was all pretty usual and as expected. Greg slammed his fist on the table. “Bastards!” He rubbed his face. “It’s not meant to be… we should have wrapped it up. There should be a huge bank transfer or lots of small ones or something but there’s nothing.”

“Maybe it’s not the wife?”

“It’s got to be.”

“Because the freak said so?”

“No, because… well, yeah, a bit because Sherlock said so. But I can think for myself and it made sense. There’s got to be something else. There’s got be.”

Greg pushed his chair away from his desk, storming through his office. He didn’t consciously notice how everyone avoided his gaze as he made his way to the bike rack and lit a cigarette. He let in a long breath. It tasted like delicious heaven.

 

* * *

 

_He and Mycroft were in the shower. Greg was kissing him like he never wanted to stop. It was warm and wonderful._

  


He woke up hard, and smiling.

 

* * *

 

Another day, another one where he locked himself in his office. He was certain there was another bank account. So he took advice from an officer who specialised in fraud cases and learnt a few tricks of the trade. But nothing came to light.

Onto his third cigarette of the hour, he ignored Donovan calling to him as he walked back to his office. The only thing he saw were more hours of paperwork.

 

* * *

 

_Greg was trapped in a lift. He could hear the ceiling creaking. A large bang, and the water flooded in._

 

* * *

 

He slammed the door in Edmund Bullock’s face. The man was incompetent. Donovan stormed in and shut the door behind her.

“Oi, this is my office,” Greg said, folding his arms.

“You have got to stop this,” she said.

“Stop what?”

“Acting like a complete arsehole.”

Greg raised his eyebrows at her. “Don’t forget who your boss is.”

“Stop treating us like we’re stupid and let us in. You shouldn’t be at work. It was too soon.”

“What do you mean I shouldn’t be at work? Where else would I be?”

Sally folded her arms. “You could have died. You’re probably in shock or something.”

“I am not in shock.”

“Then start being Greg Lestrade again. Because at the moment you’re scaring every single person in that room. They don’t even want to talk in front of you because you just bite their head off. If you need more time off then take it. But if you don’t, then start acting like our boss and not someone who needs to spend some time in anger management classes.”

Greg stared long and hard at her. “Fine,” he finally muttered.

“Good. I think you should give the Kirkcudbright case to Carter or Dimmock.”

“What? No. I’ve been working on this for two years.”

“You’re too close to it. Let someone else have a look. Because I swear, right now, it looks like it’s driving you crazy.”

Two hours later, Greg sent an email around his team to say he was sorry if he had been a bit short with them. It wasn’t personal, and if anyone wanted to have a chat, his door was always open. No one took him up on the offer, but no one sent an email to say he’d been too off with them either. Greg supposed they’d all seen the video of his accident and given him more leeway than perhaps they would have done otherwise.

 

* * *

 

_Greg was swimming. He was doing lengths, and he thought how he’d never been so fit in his life, going back and forth. He dived under, holding his breath and enjoying how relaxing it felt._

_He didn’t notice someone had began to cover the pool until he swam up to breathe. And couldn’t._

 

* * *

 

 Greg sat in front of the television until 2.36am when he finally took himself to bed. He was so exhausted he slept through the entire night.

As he looked in the mirror in the morning, he resolved to put it all behind him. There was nothing he could do about it now except let his body do its thing and cure his injured wrist. So taking one deep, long breath he let the anger go. Because there was nothing else he could do. 


	27. Shadows Where The Best Things Hide

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry you have had to wait so long for this chapter. I actually had to be sociable this weekend, honestly, who thought that was a good idea? :P  
> Novels, KingTaran, JustLookFrightenedAndScuttle, ShipsIntoDarkness, MisplacedLonelyHeartsAd, OwlinAutumn and Velma: You all say such lovely things! I cannot thank you enough. Have cookies and chocolates.  
> To jill and artemisdecibal - thanks for joining the reading of this! :D It's so appreciated.

_October, 2006_

Greg finally had his cast taken off. The past six weeks had been infuriating and difficult, but it was finally off. He needed to do exercises to get it back to full-strength, but the signs were good.

On the day before he took a few days off, Sally walked over to him during lunch. Greg was enjoying a sandwich with his Costa Coffee cappuccino. Sally set a tea and panini down opposite. “Alright, boss?”

“Yeah, good.” Greg looked at her. “You good?”

“Yup. So. How long ago was it when you and your wife broke up?”

Greg frowned at her abrupt questioning. “Before Christmas. Why?”

“I have a friend of a friend who is looking to go on a date. And I suggested you.”

“Oh no,” Greg said quickly. “No, no, no. I am not letting you set me up with anyone. I went on a date a few months ago, it was all very nice but I don’t feel like it.”

“She’s really pretty, Lestrade.”

Greg shook his head. He wasn’t ready for a relationship. Or looking for one. “Donovan, no. I’m really not interested.”

“It’s just a date.”

“And if it goes terribly, your friend will hate me and so will you.”

“It’s a friend of a friend,” Sally said. “So even if you sleep with her on the first date, it won’t bother me.”

Greg pulled a face. He wasn’t looking to sleep with anyone else either. Well, except Mycroft, obviously. “I dunno…”

“One date. When was the last time you went on a date?”

“A proper one?” Greg asked. Mycroft definitely didn’t count. In fact, seeing as Greg hadn’t heard from for a couple of weeks, Mycroft counted even less as date material. The bastard. Not that he was holding it against him. Sherlock had muttered something about him being out of the country, but a message would have been nice…

“Yes, a proper date,” Sally said.

“February,” Greg admitted. “I went on a date in February.”

“And what was wrong with her?”

Greg shrugged. “Nothing. I just wasn’t interested. She was nice.”

“And so is Lucy. Go for a date, Lestrade. Buy her dinner, have a conversation with someone who isn’t from work. And then see what happens.”

Greg sighed. “Fine. Fine, I’m free for the next three days. I’ll go.”

Sally smiled and ate her panini in triumph. Greg rolled his eyes.

 

* * *

 

The next evening, Greg found himself sat in an Indian restaurant near work, looking for the mysterious Lucy. He was a few minutes early and had bought himself a beer while he waited. He looked up as a woman was led over to their table and Greg stood, flashing her a grin. She had dark hair, tied in a bun. She had a nice figure. Nice face. Yeah. Sally had done alright for him. “Alright?” Greg smiled as she slid into the chair.

She nodded, a shy smile on her face. “Yeah, hi, thanks. Have you been here before?”

“No, never,” Greg said.

The waiter asked what she would like to drink. Greg handed her the drinks menu and she murmured a thanks before ordering some wine and some water. She laughed awkwardly as the waiter walked away. She smiled and bit her lip. “So, um. Greg, right?”

“Yeah. And Lucy?”

“Mmmhm, yep.” She glanced at the table and back at Greg. “Sorry, this is really weird, I’ve never done this before.”

Greg smiled, relaxing into his chair. This might not be so bad after all. “It’s alright. I haven’t done much either.”

“So…” Lucy accepted the wine from the waiter and murmured a thanks. “So, what are you going to have? Are we doing starters?”

Starters. Starters were a dating minefield, Greg thought. If you say yes, you have both the starter and main course to get through. If you’re getting along, that’s great. But if not, it can be two courses of hell.

“Whatever you want,” Greg said.

“I can’t resist the Indian finger food,” she said. “I went there two years ago. It is just unbelievable.”

“You went to India?” Greg asked.

“Yeah, I travel a lot,” she smiled.

Greg nodded and looked down at the menu. “I never really have,” he said. “Couple of holidays in Spain and France, but that’s about it.”

“Where did you go in France?” she asked. “I was there quite recently with work.”

“Normandy,” Greg said. “My dad lives there.”

“Oh wow. That’s amazing. I’ve never been. Is it nice?”

“It’s alright,” Greg shrugged. “I never really looked around, I was just visiting my dad.”

Lucy smiled at him and looked up at the waiter. They both ordered their food. “So, what do you do, Lucy?” Greg asked.

“Oh, lawyer. You?”

“Police officer,” Greg smiled. “So, are you responsible for trying to get my murderers off their charges?”

Lucy laughed. “No, I work in civil law. Do you like your job?”

“Yeah, it’s alright. I mean. Sometimes it’s not, but I’m pretty good at what I do.”

“What rank are you?” she asked.

“Detective Inspector.”

“Oh. Wow. That’s impressive.”

“Thank you.”

The waiter put their starters down in front of them and Greg broke off a poppadom.

“What was the toughest case you’ve solved?” Lucy asked.

“Oh God, we had this case with a load of bodies around London. Loads of drug dealers. Anyway, we found out there were two killers.”

“Two?”

“Yeah, a drug gang and then this total maniac who wanted to cleanse the world of drug addicts or something.”

“And what do you do outside of work?” she asked.

“Outside of work?”

“Yeah.”

“Um.” Greg frowned. What did he do outside of work? “I don’t know really.”

She looked bewildered. “You don’t know?”

“Well, I watch football. Sometimes I go to the pub with people from work. And I go round my friend’s house sometimes to…” To have sex. “To hang out.”

“You’re a workaholic, aren’t you?” Greg knew it was true, but she made it sound like a horrible accusation.

“I’ve been called that, yeah,” Greg confirmed.

She nodded and ate a pakora. “So, any brothers and sisters?”

Greg swallowed and shook his head. “No.”

“Aw, spoiled only child,” she grinned.

Greg smiled awkwardly. He hardly ever talked about the fact he was adopted. And he hardly knew her well enough to start explaining it now.

“I have two brothers,” she said. “One is in the military, and the other is a filmmaker.”

“What sort of films?”

“Documentaries.”

Greg nodded. “So do you enjoy your work?”

“Mostly. It funds the travelling. Which is what I really love to do.”

“Where did you go recently?”

“I went to Serbia,” she said.

Greg looked up, surprised. “Really? After the referendum?”

Her eyes widened in confusion. “What referendum?”

“The Montenegrin Independence Referendum,” Greg said. “It was a couple of months ago. Serbia and Montenegro were one country. They had a referendum in May and they split and then the rest of world recognised Montenegro as a country later on.”

“Oh. No. I was there when they were one country.”

“It’s really interesting,” Greg said. “It was the last bit of Yugoslavia. At least, I think that’s what it was, I can’t totally remember. And when they voted, they had lots of debates about how it should go. And they decided it should be 55% in favour as long as there was a 50% turn-out.” Greg opened his mouth to carry on but saw her frown. “Sorry. I’m boring you.”

“I’m not really a history person,” she said. “I like different foods and parties in different cultures. I don’t really have an interest in politics.”

“Neither do I,” Greg said. “But I have this mate. I can’t tell you exactly what his job is, because I don’t know. But he knows all this politics stuff, and it’s really interesting.”

“Oh,” she replied, looking around the restaurant.

“It’s amazing, he must be dealing with loads of international events a week, half of them we probably have no idea about. I mean, with this Montenegro thing, a diplomat nearly screwed everything up so that-” Greg felt his phone buzz in his pocket. “Sorry.”

Greg took his phone out and looked at.

Calling: Mycroft Holmes.

“I need to take this,” Greg murmured. “It’s work,” he added. He pressed the answer button. “Lestrade.”

“Good evening,” Mycroft said. Greg smiled despite himself at the sound of his voice. He forgot to be mad that they hadn’t spoken in weeks.

“Hello, is everything alright?”

“You’re at a restaurant,” Mycroft said. “I’m interrupting.”

“No, it’s alright,” Greg said, breaking off another poppadom. “What’s up?”

“I found myself with a spare two hours. I wondered whether you were able to come round. But I understand you’re busy.”

Oh God, not too busy at all. “Is it urgent?” Greg asked.

“No, Greg, it isn’t.”

“Alright. Sure. I’ll be there right away,” Greg said.

“Greg-”

“I’ll be there. Send the car over to The Indian Diner in Rochester Row.”

“Very well.” Mycroft hung up and Greg looked apologetically at Lucy.

“I’m so sorry, we’re short-staffed at work and…”

She put her hand up. “It’s fine, don’t worry.” She didn’t seem overly fussed about him leaving.

Greg pulled his wallet out and put some money down on the table. “Enjoy dinner, please. I’ll call you.”

She smiled tightly at him. “Likewise.”

As Greg stood up and walked away from the table he realised neither of them had each other’s number. Oh well. It wasn’t that great a date anyway.

The car was already there when Greg got to the front entrance and he slid in, dropping Mycroft a text to say he was on his way. He felt the excitement in the pit of his stomach as he watched out of the window, wondering where he was being taken this time.

In the end, it turned out to be Whitehall. Greg was shown the way by the driver where he found Anthea waiting by the door. She barely looked at him. “Follow me, Detective Inspector,” she said.

Greg did so, looking around the long dark corridors. A man Greg recognised walked past and Greg looked over his shoulder at him. “Was that-”

“Alistair Darling,” Anthea confirmed. “This is Mr Holmes’ official office.” Greg couldn’t help his grin as he realised he’d seen the unofficial one. The secret one. Anthea opened a door. “And here we are, Detective Inspector.” She smiled, raising an eyebrow at him. “Have a nice time. Don’t tire him out too much, I need him ready to go to the airport again.”

Greg nodded faintly, deciding to ignore her innuendo, walking through and closing the door behind him. Mycroft was stood by the window, a glass of something in his hand. He turned and smiled at Greg.

“What was wrong with your date?” he asked as he took in Greg’s appearance.

“She was a bit boring,” Greg said. He looked around the office. It was brighter than the Coeur de Lion Offices, but with another large desk. There was a large bookcase full of files and another smaller one. The lamps were on, offering the room a warm glow. “So, I didn’t think you ever had a loose end,” Greg grinned, leaning against the wall.

Mycroft chuckled. “No, I suppose I don’t really. But I’ll work on the aeroplane.”

“Where you going?” Mycroft didn’t answer. Greg bit his lip. “Well, good luck, with whatever it is.”

“Thank you.”

Greg strolled over to him and Mycroft put his glass down on the windowsill. Greg hesitated for a second before resting his hands on Mycroft’s hips. Mycroft offered him a half-smile in return, keeping his arms down by his sides.

Greg frowned a bit. “Did I get this wrong?”

“Not at all,” Mycroft replied. “Not at all.”

Greg smiled and pressed a chaste kiss to Mycroft’s lips. Mycroft’s body relaxed instantly, one hand resting at the side of Greg’s neck, the other snaking around his waist to draw him closer.

They exchanged slow, experimental kisses as Greg decided to take his time to work out whether Mycroft liked a bit of teeth on his bottom lip, whether he liked a tongue to swipe against his mouth. Greg found he rather liked everything Mycroft did with his tongue as his light flicks drew Greg in as he melted into their joined embrace.

Their tongues touched, and Greg tasted the bitter tobacco mixed with brandy, while his nose caught a whiff of that heady aftershave. Mycroft’s hand moved into Greg’s hair, his fingers roaming through the strands and Greg let out a soft sound against his lips.

Greg’s arms wrapped around Mycroft’s waist, their bodies pressing together, aligning somewhat perfectly. They were a great height for one another, neither straining their necks too much as their lips met. Greg felt Mycroft’s smile against his lips and Greg pressed soft kisses to his jaw. There wasn’t much neck available to press his mouth to, with collar and tie in the way, but Greg kissed the skin he could reach, flicking his tongue out to taste.

Mycroft sighed against him, one hand moving under the bottom of Greg’s shirt to stroke his back. His fingers traced the length of Greg’s spine and Greg kissed him again, more deeply this time.

Greg lowered one hand to feel Mycroft’s arse through his trousers and he gave it a small squeeze before moving his hand over his chest.

He rested his hand at the side of Mycroft’s neck as he savoured each kiss. There was nothing demanding about it. Mycroft’s lips found Greg’s neck and he tilted it, as the man found the sensitive spots that made him sigh.

Greg smiled blissfully and glanced down at his hands as he began to unfasten Mycroft’s belt. Mycroft teeth scraped against his neck and Greg shuddered as he pulled the belt free of the loops. He put it down on the windowsill, and touched Mycroft’s chin, lifting his face so he could kiss him again.

Their lips brushed together, and Greg unfastened Mycroft’s trousers. He gave him one long kiss, savouring his taste, before dropping down to his knees. He heard Mycroft’s surprised gasp, and he leaned against the wall. “Greg you don’t need-” he started, but Greg looked up at him with a grin.

“I know I don’t need to. I want to though.”

Greg felt his erection through the two layers of fabric. Mycroft shuddered, and Greg smiled, pushing his trousers down. He bent forward to rub his cheek against the front of Mycroft’s underwear, and he groaned as the silk brushed against his skin. “You need to tell me where you get these from,” Greg said. “They’re amazing.”

Mycroft stroked his fingers through Greg’s hair. Greg looked up at him. His head was tilted back, his lips parted, half-lidded eyes watching Greg from above. Greg let out a low moan as he pulled his underwear down, admiring his cock. He stroked his hands on the insides of Mycroft’s thighs, taking in the sprinkling of hair. He hadn’t really taken much chance to look before, too lost in the moment. But he looked now, drawing a slow circle on the back of Mycroft’s knee with his finger.

Mycroft was breathing heavily, his fingers tightening and relaxing in Greg’s hair. Greg rested one hand on his hip and wrapped the other around his prick, giving it a few slow strokes. Mycroft was quiet above him, but his change of grip on Greg’s hair, his deep breaths and shaking knees told everything Greg needed to know.

Greg licked the head of Mycroft’s cock and the taste of him reminded Greg of his own arousal, hot in his jeans. He let go of Mycroft for a moment, quickly unfastening his jeans to release some of the tension. He wrapped his hand back around Mycroft’s cock and licked along the length, flicking his tongue. Mycroft gasped, and Greg glanced up at him. Fuck, he was stunning like this.

Greg drew the head into his mouth as he hollowed his cheeks. He kept his head still for a few moments, pressing his tongue in different places at different pressures, trying to figure out how Mycroft might like it.

He reached up to touch Mycroft’s hip and encouraged him to move. He heard Mycroft’s stunned gasp, but he pressed forward a bit, pushing more of his cock into Greg’s mouth. Greg groaned around him and Mycroft shuddered.

Greg pushed one hand inside his own jeans, wrapping his fingers around himself and making another low sound as he fisted his cock and started to move his own hips. He looked up at Mycroft’s face as he fucked his mouth, but never too much, never pushing Greg too far. However lost he was in his own pleasure, he was attentive and considerate, which is more than Greg could say of some of his partners while he had been at university.

Greg moved his head more quickly, one hand gripping Mycroft’s hip, the other working his own cock hard. Mycroft’s fingers pressed against Greg’s cheek to warn him he was close, but Greg never stopped his movements, taking as much of Mycroft’s prick as he could.

Mycroft gasped and trembled as he came and Greg swallowed all he gave, keeping his mouth around Mycroft as he softened and relaxed. Greg gently released him, thrusting his hips into his own hand.

Mycroft knelt down with him and Greg let him wrap his hand around his cock. The feel of Mycroft’s long fingers wrapped around him was enough to push him over the edge and he thrust once into his hand as he came, watching as he spilled over the other man’s fingers. He kissed Mycroft messily.

Mycroft let out a relaxed sigh as he dropped down onto the floor. Although he pulled his boxers back up, he left his trousers down around his knees. Greg joined him on the floor, pulling his own underwear up. They glanced at each other before quickly looking away. Greg glanced at him again and smiled. He leaned forward and kissed the corner of Mycroft’s mouth.

Greg leaned back on his arms, stretching his legs out along the floor. “So, was that a good enough welcome back and going away again present?”

Mycroft smiled at him. “Yes, it was.”

“How long you going to be away this time?”

“A week at most. Hopefully.”

Greg smiled. “Thanks for interrupting my date. This was better.” Mycroft chuckled and shook his head. Greg grinned and pulled his jeans up, fastening them. He looked at Mycroft. He seemed perfectly content. Greg stroked his thigh.

They looked at each other and smiled before Greg got to his knees and stood up. He held his hand out to Mycroft who accepted it and stood before fastening his trousers.

“Well,” Greg said. “I should head back home.”

“Enjoy your days off.”

“I will,” Greg said, not even questioning how he knew. Without thinking about it, Greg cupped his cheek and kissed him, drawing his bottom lip between his. Mycroft’s arms wound around his body as he deepened the kiss. Greg groaned, pressing their bodies back together. He knew he should go, but he was unwilling to stop.

A knock on the door had them breaking the kiss. Mycroft smiled sympathetically, pressing one last quick kiss to Greg’s lips before stepping away and putting on his belt. Just as he’d tightened it, Anthea walked in. She looked between them both, but her face bore no expression. “The car’s here early, sir,” she said. “The pilot said there are some strong winds forecast and we should leave sooner rather than later.” With that, she turned and walked out of the office.

Greg shoved his hands in his pockets. “Right, well, have a good trip.”

“Thank you.”

“Be safe, yeah?”

Mycroft looked at him, surprised. “I will,” he replied.

Greg reached over, squeezed his shoulder, and then let go. Giving Mycroft one last lingering look he walked out of the office, past Anthea who didn’t give him a second glance, and got into the car which took him home.

 

* * *

 

 

Greg stared down at the two bodies. Two twin bodies to be exact. Both lying on their backs, arms by their side, placed head to toe. He looked around the room, considering the blood stains on the floor where the bodies had been dragged. He picked up his phone and called Sherlock.

“I’ve got two bodies here-” Greg started.

“I’m not interested.”

“Hang on, now wait-”

“No. You already knew the case wouldn’t interest me or you wouldn’t have tried to sell it from the moment I answered the phone. I’m not coming.”

Greg frowned. “Look, this is right up your street and-” Sherlock had already hung up. Greg rubbed his face. “Alright, we’re doing this one without Sherlock Holmes.”

“About time too,” Anderson muttered.

Greg glanced at Sally and knew she shared that sentiment. “Alright, so we’ve got two bodies. Maybe two killers, unless the killer came back for the second one later. They wouldn’t have been able to kill one with the other one still in the room I suspect. Anderson, I want full analysis of the blood stains and where they come from and where they go. Sal, come with me.”

Greg and Sally left the bedroom to go downstairs, where the landlord who found the bodies was sat on the sofa. They both took a seat across from him. “You alright?” Greg asked.

The landlord nodded. “Bit of a shock.”

“What were you doing here?” Sally asked.

“I came to collect the rent. They hadn’t paid me in two months and I have a mortgage to pay. So, I got here about 45 minutes ago and found them like that.”

“How much did they owe you?”

“About £1,800.”

“Is it the first time they’ve skipped paying the rent?” Greg asked.

“No. But they pay it eventually. They’re not the worst tenants I’ve ever had. I had to evict the last lot. But I didn’t kill them. You know that right? I got here and they were already like it.”

“When we’ve confirmed time of death we will be back in touch. I need your contact details.”

The landlord nodded and gave them both his home phone and mobile numbers. Greg let him go and shook his head a bit at Sally. “Don’t think that’s your guy but there’s motive.”

Greg went back up the stairs. He picked up one of the evidence bags. “What’s this?”

Anderson looked up at him. “It’s a betting slip. We’ve found quite a few in this one’s pockets. This one is George Klein and the other is Marcus Klein.”

 

* * *

 

He solved the case the old fashioned way. Without Sherlock Holmes. It took nine days, but it was nine days of good, solid police work which reminded him of the days before his life was invaded by Holmeses.

The gambling lead was a good one. When he and Sally finally tracked down the head of a casino George Klein owed a lot of money to, they were both struck by the symmetry of the house.

The matching columns, two vases, two pictures, two everything. So when they contemplated the nature of the twin murder, it all fit nicely together. He wondered if he hadn’t known Sherlock whether he would have noticed it. He liked to think he would have done.

It filled him with confidence that he was still able to do it. So Sherlock was useful, but he wasn’t strictly necessary at every crime scene. And now he fully appreciated that.

It was true that his extended absence was a concern. If he were bored and about to dive back into old drug habits then Greg’s time off and Sally’s refusal to work with him may have sealed it. So after yet another unanswered text or phone call, Greg did try Mycroft but had to leave a message with an assistant. That was three days ago, and he still hadn’t heard anything from either Holmes brother.

It was four days before Mycroft returned his call.

“Lestrade.”

“Good... afternoon.”

Greg laughed. “Is it a different time where you are?”

“Evening. A long one,” Mycroft replied wearily. “I will be home in the early hours of this morning if you would like to come round to discuss Sherlock.”

“Yeah, that would be great. Thanks. You okay?”

“Exhausted.”

“You sound it.”

“How kind of you to say.”

Greg grinned. “Have a good flight back from wherever you are.”

“Thank you. See you tomorrow.”

“Looking forward to it.”

Mycroft hung up and Greg smiled. He wasn’t keen on how such a quick conversation with Mycroft improved his day, but improved it did. It was a bit embarrassing.

 

* * *

 

The butler let Greg through and he walked in, smiling at Mycroft. He frowned at Sherlock. “Hi,” he said, taking a seat on the sofa. “I didn’t know you were going to be here.”

“I wish I could have said the same,” Sherlock muttered, rolling his eyes at him.

“Play nice, Sherlock,” Mycroft warned, looking across at Greg. Sherlock covered his face with a cushion. “How was your day?” Mycroft asked.

“Not bad actually.”

“It’s nice to see you.”

Greg smiled over at him. “Is everything alright?” he asked, eyeing Sherlock.

“Yes. Would you like a drink?” Mycroft asked, already standing.

“What are you having?”

“Brandy.”

“Then that’s good for me too.”

Mycroft walked to his small drinks table and poured them each a drink. He handed Greg a glass and their fingers brushed together. Their eyes each flicked up from their glasses and they shared a secret smile. Mycroft walked back to his seat.

“So, Sherlock, how’ve you been?” Greg asked. He didn’t get any response and rolled his eyes.

“Sherlock has been ‘experimenting’,” Mycroft said, a sneer on his lip.

“Experimenting?”

“Yes. Apparently heroin was ‘boring’.”

Greg stared at Sherlock. “Heroin got ‘boring?’ What the hell did you replace it with?”

“Homemade experiments,” Sherlock, said, throwing the cushion the floor and sitting up. “Mycroft, I didn’t come here for a lecture.”

“Then what did you come here for?”

“I want my violin.”

“You may have it. When you stop acting like an insolent child.”

Sherlock glared at his brother. “Perhaps if I had my violin, I wouldn’t need to experiment.”

“As much as I would like to believe that, I think your past record proves that would be unlikely.”

“I know you moved my dealer on.”

Mycroft tilted his head. “And how would I possibly do that, Sherlock?”

“You know how,” Sherlock muttered. The brothers stared at each other from across the room. “I can find another dealer.”

“That I do believe,” Mycroft replied.

“I never take too much,” Sherlock said. “I’ve calculated my body weight and my heart rate precisely. I know just the perfect amount to give myself.”

“And yet still you’ve almost killed yourself in the past,” Mycroft replied.

“I test it now,” Sherlock retorted.

“One day that will not be enough.”

Sherlock offered a big fake smile. “Oh, I don’t know. One day, too much might be just enough.”

“Do not talk about your death like that.”

“Why? Like you would mind having me out of your hair. What’s left of it.”

“Do not try and test the level of my affection for you,” Mycroft warned.

Sherlock snorted. “Affection? Is that what you call interfering in my life?”

“Stop being a dickhead,” Greg finally cut in. “Look, shock tactics don’t work. Taking away your favourite things doesn’t work. What’s it going to be, Sherlock? Wait until you choke on your own vomit?”

Sherlock looked at him. “You both have such a power complex. Why don’t you both just leave me alone?”

“Because we want you clean,” Greg said.

“And why is that, Detective Inspector? So you feel better about yourself? So I solve all your cases for you so you get a promotion? Just ask Mycroft, I’m sure he can arrange that for you without any trouble.”

“Sherlock!” Mycroft warned.

Sherlock turned to his brother. “You always ruin everything. Why can’t you leave me alone?”

“Because you cannot be trusted.”

Sherlock pointed at Greg. “He trusts me.”

Greg held his hands up. “Keep me out of this.”

Mycroft stood and stared at his brother. “Sherlock. You will resume work with the Detective Inspector. What he and I do outside of working hours is none of your concern.”

“And what happens when you destroy everything?”

“Oi,” Greg cut in. “We’re only shagging. No one’s destroyed anything.”

Sherlock snorted and continued to look at Mycroft. “You always take my things.”

“Things?” Greg asked, raising his eyebrows. “Wait, what I’m not your ‘thing’, Sherlock.”

“Sherlock, do grow up,” Mycroft muttered.

Sherlock stood up. “The pair of you are disgusting. Carrying on as though your relationship means anything. You know something’s coming, Mycroft. We all know Lestrade was nearly killed because of you, so how long as you going to allow this facade to continue? He probably believes you _care_ about him. But we both know you are incapable of that.”

Greg swallowed and looked down at his knees.

“Don’t do any more drug experiments,” Mycroft warned, but Sherlock snorted again before storming out of the room and slamming the front door.

Greg sighed. “He’s going to use again,” he murmured, avoiding Mycroft’s eyes.

Mycroft sank down into his chair and sipped his brandy. “I know. It’s the only battle I’ve ever lost.”

“It’s not lost yet.”

“I worry about him.”

“I know. So do I,” Greg admitted.

“I know.”

Greg sighed. “God knows, I wish I didn’t. I wish I thought he can do whatever he likes, but I don’t think that because I do like him.”

“Greg, the things Sherlock said-”

Greg held his hand up to cut him off and looked over at him. Mycroft’s face lacked an expression. “We don’t want to have a talk about it,” Greg said. “Let’s just carry on the way it is, yeah? It works that way.”

Mycroft nodded. “Very well.”

Greg sipped his drink. Mycroft slipped off the sofa and walked over to him, holding his hand out. Greg frowned.

“You prefer whiskey,” Mycroft said. “Let me change it for you.”

Greg grinned and handed his glass over. “Deduced it?”

“Yes. Having seen you drink both on separate occasions.” Mycroft poured Greg’s brandy into his own glass before pouring a glass of whiskey for him. Greg took it from him and to his surprise, Mycroft took a seat on the sofa beside him. “What are we going to do about Sherlock?” Mycroft asked.

Greg shook his head. “I don’t know.”

“Have you got your cigarettes?”

“Er, yeah.” Greg reached into his jacket pocket and handed Mycroft the box.

“Would you like to join me on the balcony?” Mycroft asked as he stood up, carrying his drink. Greg nodded and followed him, checking his pocket for his lighter. He sipped his whiskey as Mycroft opened the doors and they stepped out. Greg watched his breath disappear into the air.

Mycroft held a cigarette in his mouth and Greg lit it for him, feeling the warmth of Mycroft’s face against his palm. Mycroft nodded as a thank you and leaned onto the railing. Greg stood beside him, inhaling the cigarette smoke as Mycroft exhaled. Mycroft handed it over to him and Greg took a drag before giving it back. Greg watched the cars down on the road below.

They stood in silence, ignoring the chill of the air, and swapping the cigarette between them until Mycroft finally stamped the light out with his shoe. He stood up straight, taking a long sip of his brandy. Greg glanced over at him. He reached out and wrapped a hand comfortingly around the back of Mycroft’s neck. Greg rubbed gently and smiled as Mycroft turned his body towards him.

Mycroft cupped Greg’s jaw in his hand and pulled him into a slow kiss, sharing the bitterness of their cigarette and mix of the brandy and whiskey. Mycroft dropped his hand and turned back to the railing. Greg licked his lip and shuffled closer and Mycroft wrapped one arm around his waist, holding him there. Greg rested his cheek against his shoulder.

“Sherlock was right,” Mycroft finally murmured. “Something is coming. The signs are perfectly clear.”

“What are they after?” Greg asked.

“An untold number of things. Secrets, power, control.”

Greg glanced at him, and knew he wasn’t even being hyperbolic.

“The more I know about the world, the more I wish I didn’t,” Mycroft said, frowning. “I am almost 37. And I am only just fully appreciating the things people will do for power. They don’t care about nations, and status quo. They care about money in their pockets and bribery and deceit. And my instinct is to protect Sherlock from that. But of course, he is no longer a child. Despite his petulance.”

Greg stayed quiet. He hardly knew what to say.

“So, when Sherlock says this cannot continue, he is quite correct,” Mycroft continued. Greg frowned and took a long drink of whiskey. If Mycroft was ending their - whatever it was - here and now, he’d rather he didn’t do it while their bodies were pressed close together. “But what might we deduce about me, Greg? When my drug of choice is falling into bed with you?”

“I don’t know,” Greg replied quietly.

“Nor do I. But it’s far more agreeable than Sherlock’s heroin habit.”

Greg smiled a bit. “Yeah, that’s true.” Mycroft looked at him and smiled, tightening the hold on his waist. “You have a tough week?” Greg asked and Mycroft nodded.

“Being a veterinarian would have been far simpler.”

Greg laughed. “Hey, you said nearly 37? Is it your birthday soon?”

“Next week,” Mycroft said. “Tuesday.”

“You want to go for dinner?”

Mycroft hesitated before speaking. “Very well. I suppose it’s your turn to choose.”

“It’s your birthday, we can go wherever you want.”

“Then I would like you to decide.”

Greg nodded. “Alright. I’ll think of something.”

Mycroft set his drink down on the table, and took Greg’s from him, putting it down too. Greg turned to look at him and Mycroft’s arms slid around him, underneath his jacket. Greg watched him, lips parted. Mycroft leaned forward, drawing Greg’s bottom lip between his, pulling their bodies flush together. He trailed kisses along Greg’s jaw and up to his ear. “Do you think they can see?” he whispered, sliding a hand under Greg’s shirt and over his lower back.

“Who?” Greg asked, sighing as Mycroft’s lips found his neck.

“The world down below.”

Greg glanced around. “I think if your living room light was off then it would be too dark.”

Mycroft nodded and stepped away from him. “Wait there.”

Greg shivered and nodded, watching as Mycroft retreated back into the living room.

He looked back down at the road, with the cars tearing past. The sound of people entering and leaving The Golden Lion pub down the road. His cock twitched at the thought of getting hot and steamy with Mycroft here, so close to where anybody could see them.

Greg saw the living room light go off and Mycroft returned seconds later. He stalked towards Greg, cupping his face in his hands and drawing him into a hot and hungry kiss. Greg groaned deep in his throat as he pulled Mycroft closer to him, wrapping one hand in his tie and squeezing his arse with the other.

Mycroft backed him into the wall, breaking the kiss for a few seconds to look at Greg with desire in his eyes before reigniting the kiss, full of need. Their bodies were pressed flush together, Mycroft occasionally moving to give Greg’s rapidly-hardening cock some much-needed friction.

Mycroft’s dexterous fingers made swift work of Greg’s trousers, pushing them down as far as his knees as he bit the side of his neck. Greg tipped his head back, fighting the sound threatening at his lips. Mycroft was mesmerising in this dark, the only light coming from the lampposts lined along the street below.

He unfastened Mycroft’s belt, dropping it down onto the stone. The cold air was surrounding him, but where his body met Mycroft’s he was anything but. Lost in the sensation of Mycroft’s cock pressing against his through their underwear, he lost track of whether he was shuddering in pleasure or shivering in cold.

Mycroft kissed behind his ear and whispered. “Do you hear it? The noise?”

“Yeah,” Greg murmured, gasping as Mycroft’s fingers rubbed lightly against his balls through the fabric.

“They’re all so unobservant,” Mycroft whispered as he began to peel down Greg’s underwear. Greg shuddered and pulled Mycroft’s down too, groaning as their pricks rubbed against each other without the confines of fabric. Mycroft rocked their hips together as he kissed Greg again.

Greg lost himself in Mycroft’s mouth, one hand tangled in Mycroft’s clothing and the other stroking and scratching wherever he could reach. Mycroft’s hand closed around their cocks and Greg moaned into the other man’s mouth.

“Shh, now,” Mycroft murmured against his lips. Greg trembled as his thumb swiped over the head of his cock.

“How can I be quiet when you’re doing that?” Greg murmured back, grazing his lips over Mycroft’s throat. “It’s like you know all the things to do to drive me crazy.”

“Oh, but I do,” Mycroft whispered back. He flicked his wrist, just a bit, and Greg shook against him.

“God,” Greg gasped.

“Just look,” Mycroft said softly, lightly nipping his ear lobe. “Just look at the street. All those people walking past. Unobservant. Oblivious, as I make you come undone right here, in the open.”

Greg bit back a moan as he listened to Mycroft’s words as his hand moved quicker against their cocks. He looked past the other man and over the balcony. There was a fight beginning outside the pub. He heard the cars racing past. The sound of laughter as two people walked down the road. And there was Mycroft, pulling Greg with him in waves of ecstasy.

His knees shook as he drew close to coming and then Mycroft’s hand stopped moving. Greg glanced at him, breathing hard. Mycroft was practically smirking.

Greg swallowed. “What-”

“You are very rarely patient,” Mycroft murmured.

Greg kissed his jaw. “I’m bloody desperate here,” he said, shivering as a cold breeze passed them.

Mycroft kissed him and swept his thumb over Greg’s cock again. Greg gasped and moved his hand, brushing his fingers against Mycroft’s balls. Mycroft’s breath shook and he looked at him, his eyes filled with desire.

“I might not be patient,” Greg murmured, taking control of the sexual powerplay they’d found themselves in. “But I know how to get what I want.”

Mycroft pressed his body up against Greg’s, pushing their cocks more firmly together. Greg held his eyes, and pressed his finger against Mycroft’s perineum. Mycroft began to move his hand again and Greg let out a low groan as he moved to his head to kiss Mycroft.

Mycroft’s hand was unrelenting this time, and Greg moved his own hand to join his as they laced their fingers together. They moved in time, lost in messy kisses and panting breaths as Greg finally came, biting down a bit too hard on Mycroft’s bottom lip. Mycroft shuddered against him as he came too, his forehead pressed against Greg’s cheek as he let go.

Greg thought perhaps he’d been too loud, but Mycroft didn’t try to quieten him. They stood leaning against each other for a few minutes before the cold got too much and they wordlessly straightened their clothes. Greg wiped his hand on his jeans. Mycroft raised his eyebrows at him.

Greg grinned and picked up their glasses, strolling inside and collapsing onto the sofa. Mycroft followed, closing the balcony doors and turning on a lamp.

Greg smiled widely at him, patting the place beside him on the sofa. Mycroft shook his head in amusement before walking over. Greg nuzzled his neck, breathing warm air against the cold skin. “Where did that come from?” Greg asked, rubbing his thigh. “You’re unbelievable.”

Mycroft turned his head to kiss Greg’s cheek. “You spend your life abiding by rules. I thought you might like a bit of danger.”

Greg chuckled. “Alright. Yeah. It was good. I’ll give you that.”

Mycroft kissed Greg’s smile and Greg kissed him back lazily. He got up and walked over to the drinks table, bringing the two decanters over and topping up their drinks. He handed the glass to Mycroft and straddled his lap, sitting up on his knees with both leg either side of Mycroft’s. Mycroft chuckled and rested his free hand on Greg’s hip.

“What on earth are you doing?” Mycroft asked as though the whole situation was absurd, but smiling nonetheless.

“I’m sitting on you,” Greg grinned.

“And why, may I ask, are you doing that?”

Greg kissed him and grinned. “Because it felt like the right thing to do.”

Mycroft laughed and sipped his drink. “Incorrigible.”

“You use that word a lot around me.” Greg took hold of Mycroft’s hand and sipped from the glass, before pulling a bit of a face. “Yeah, you’re right, I don’t like brandy.”

“I know,” Mycroft smiled.

Greg laughed and rolled off him, sitting back beside him on the sofa and drinking his whiskey.

Mycroft smiled bemused at him. “You drank brandy the night we played cards, do you remember?”

“I remember that night,” Greg agreed. “I didn’t remember it was brandy.”

“You were quite tipsy.”

Greg laughed. “So were you, I think.”

“It was in January,” Mycroft murmured.

Greg frowned, thinking. “Yeah, I guess it was.”

“It was.”

Greg nudged him. “What are you thinking?”

“I was thinking sex with you was excellent to start with and seems to be getting better, and far surpassing any of my previous experiences. And in the past 20 seconds I have just solved a frankly ridiculous conundrum we were trying to deal with at work this week.”

Greg laughed. “You just thought all that at once?”

“I was solving the puzzle in the background of my mind, I assure you. I was completely engaged in the sex.”

Greg laughed harder, curling into him and smiling as Mycroft’s arm wrapped around his shoulders. “How the hell do you even do that?”

“I imagine my mind to be very much like a machine. I input information and explanations and conclusions appear from the other end. And like any number of machines, mine can do a number of different tasks simultaneously.”

“But everyone’s brain does stuff at the same time.”

Mycroft just smiled and drew Greg closer.

“So, how many people have you slept with?” Greg asked.

Mycroft frowned for a second before replying. “You are the seventh.”

“All men?”

“Yes.”

Greg nodded. “You’re the best sex I had too.”

Mycroft glanced at him, his lips parted in surprise. “You were married for 16 years.”

Greg shrugged. “It must be your deduction skills or something making you amazing in bed. It’s different with women. Not bad-different or good-different, just different.” Greg kissed his neck, moving his legs to cover Mycroft’s lap as he rested against him, closing his eyes.

Mycroft held him more securely, leaning forward to put his glass down on the table as he rested his other hand on Greg’s thigh.

Greg smiled and let out a soft sigh. “Should go home,” he murmured.

“Mm,” Mycroft replied, noncommittally.

“You’re warm.”

“I’m convinced your body temperature is a degree lower than the average person’s,” Mycroft said, closing his own eyes as he tilted his head onto the back of the sofa.

“Don’t know for sure, but I don’t think that’s scientifically possible,” Greg replied.

“The idea every person is the exactly same temperature is one of many lies adults tell small children,” Mycroft informed him, playing with Greg’s hair where it met his neck.

Greg smiled. School was full of scientific rules which proved not to be true. “It was very depressing when Pluto stopped being a planet a couple of months ago,” Greg said.

Mycroft chuckled. “Why was that?”

“Because I used the rhyme. You know the one? My Very Easy Method Just Shows Us Nine Planets? Well, now my easy method just shows me nine nothings. No more planets. No more Pluto.”

Mycroft kissed his head. “Why did that bother you so much?”

“Pretty much the only thing I remember from school. And how to spell ‘because’.”

“Because?”

“Big elephants can always understand small elephants.”

Mycroft laughed. “I’ve never heard that.”

“Probably because you were a smart kid who could spell.”

“Yes, that’s possibly correct,” Mycroft agreed.

Greg grinned, hitting him playfully. “Bastard. Didn’t have to agree.”

“I had trouble with mathematics,” Mycroft murmured.

Greg opened his eyes and looked up at him. “Really?” Mycroft had a half smile on his face, his eyes still closed. Greg smiled to himself as he looked at him. Christ, he was gorgeous.

“Really. Long division. And quadratic equations. All terribly embarrassing, especially as our mother is a mathematical genius. Sherlock was incredibly gifted at it, of course. Thankfully he never saw the trouble it gave me at school.”

“I was good at PE.”

“I was good at fencing. Sherlock ended up being better.”

Greg laughed. “Did he beat you?”

“On the one occasion we thought it would be a good idea to compete against one another, yes. I’m sure you look wonderful in shorts when you play football.”

Greg grinned and settled back down against his chest. “I don’t know about that.”

Mycroft’s fingers brushed through his hair. “I’m convinced you’re always attractive.”

Greg laughed. “You’re good for my ego.”

“Likewise.”

Greg smiled and kissed his chin. He looked down at his watch. “Right.” He stretched his arms and rolled his shoulders. “Right, I’m really going this time.” He rolled out of Mycroft’s hold and stood up.

Mycroft stood too. “I’ll walk you to the door.”

Greg smiled and followed him the few metres to the door. He put his hand on the handle and Mycroft reached out and brushed the backs of his fingers against his cheek. Greg’s breath caught and he turned before kissing Mycroft lightly, sweetly, on the mouth.

“Goodnight,” Mycroft murmured. “I’ll see you Tuesday.”

“Looking forward to it. Night.” Greg smiled at him before stepping out into the corridor, basking in the fact they’d just kissed goodnight for the first time. 


	28. And I Guess I've Said It All

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Greg and Mycroft took this chapter and stole it from me in ways I was totally not expecting them to.  
> Velma, jill, KingTaran, Mice, JustLookFrightenedAndScuttle, Jaeh, Novels, MoonRiver, WhiskeySally - it might seem corny saying thanks all the time, but you guys totally keep me going through this ridiculous marathon.  
> Knowmefirst - thanks for reading! :D

_October, 2006_

Greg slid into Mycroft’s car at 7.31pm. He was wearing a suit Greg didn’t recognise, a red tie, with a pocket watch Greg didn’t think he’d seen before.

“Happy birthday,” Greg smiled over at him as he put his seatbelt on.

“Thank you.”

“Have you had a nice day?” Greg asked.

“Nothing out of the ordinary, so I suppose so. Where would you like to go?”

“I was planning a Mexican place in Covent Garden. Cantina Laredo. We went there for Carter’s birthday a few years ago and it was great.”

Mycroft leaned forward to speak to the driver and relay the instructions. The driver pulled out of the space and Greg touched his jacket pocket. He wrinkled his nose before taking the small gift out and handing it over to Mycroft. “You don’t need to open this now. Actually, it’s probably better you don’t.”

“Why is that?”

“You’ll probably hate it and then I’ll feel stupid,” Greg said. Mycroft began to peel the balloon-covered wrapping off. Greg groaned and rubbed his forehead. “Alright, so you’re doing that anyway.”

Mycroft folded the wrapping paper up and put it on the seat between them. He opened the small grey box and looked down at the gift.

“It was stupid, wasn’t it?” Greg asked, leaning back a bit so he could look at the tie pin he’d bought. It was silver in colour, though not that expensive - Mycroft’s clothes were probably worth thousands, what the hell was he thinking buying a cheap(ish) piece like that? In the centre of the pin was a sovereign’s orb. It had seemed appropriate before. Now it seemed unnecessarily ostentatious.

“You really shouldn’t have,” Mycroft murmured as he slid his thumb over the metal.

“I know, it’s… it’s not good, is it?” Greg agreed. “It’s really tack-”

“-Perfect,” Mycroft interjected.

“Perfect? Oh.” Greg smiled a bit. “Really?”

“Truly.” Mycroft took it out of the box and clipped it perfectly onto his tie.

Greg smiled over at him. “Really? You actually like it?”

“You shouldn’t have. But it’s wonderful.”

Wonderful. It was wonderful. And it looked pretty wonderful on Mycroft too. Greg had a day off on Saturday so decided to buy Mycroft a present. He was torn between buying him something ludicrously stupid and something the other man might like. The novelty black mug with Batman wings had been tempting. And he thought the ‘grow your own Venus fly trap’ would have made an amusing addition to Mycroft’s office.

Then he went to Debenhams and considered the cufflinks. And that was where he’d seen the tie clip. Which Mycroft was now wearing. Willingly. Greg smiled and without thinking, reached forward to slide his hand against Mycroft’s thigh.

“Thank you,” Mycroft said softly, glancing between Greg’s mouth and the hand on his leg. “It is a very thoughtful gift.”

Greg grinned and watched him. “You’re welcome.” He squeezed Mycroft’s thigh once before letting go and watching out of the window. “I love Covent Garden.”

“Perhaps we should go for a drink afterwards,” Mycroft suggested. “After all, it is only my birthday once a year.”

Greg smiled and tightened his scarf. “Sounds good.” He got out as the car stopped right outside the restaurant. Mycroft stepped out of the car and Greg joined him on the pavement outside. They walked into the restaurant and Greg asked for the table he had reserved. They were led to the table for two by the window. “Busy in here,” Greg remarked as he looked around. He asked for a bottle of red wine for the table.

“How are you?” Mycroft asked, opening the menu.

“Yeah, good. Not seen your brother around though.”

Mycroft shook his head. “I am keeping an eye on him, don’t worry.”

“Your security is keeping well away though. Barely notice they’re there.”

“Sounds as though they need some training. You shouldn’t notice them at all.”

Greg laughed and looked at his menus. “Do you want starters?”

“Do you?”

“Yeah, definitely. We could have one of the sharing dishes if you want?”

“The botanas platter?” Mycroft asked.

Greg looked at it. Tacos, chicken, beef, tiger prawns and vegetable skewers. “Brilliant, yeah.”

Mycroft smiled and and Greg volunteered him to taste the wine the waitress brought over. She poured it into their glasses. She left them to it and Greg sipped his drink.

“Have you ever been to Mexico?” Greg asked as his eyes skimmed the main meals.

“Twice.”

“What’s it like?”

Mycroft paused for a moment. “Chaotic. Loud.”

“Too loud?”

“I prefer London,” Mycroft said. “What do you recommend?”

“I think I had the spiced pork tamales last time.”

“I may have the sea bass,” Mycroft said. “Is that okay?”

“Of course. Have anything you want. It’s the camarones escondos for me.”

“Escondidos,” Mycroft corrected.

Greg grinned. “Escondidos. Yeah. That.”

Mycroft laughed and sipped his wine. Greg smiled back at him until the waitress appeared and took their food orders. “When are you 40?” Mycroft asked.

Greg groaned. “Did you have to remind me? November 29th.”

“Are you planning anything?”

“No. Not really. I guess I’ll have to do something since it’s a big one.”

“I’m sure it won’t be as bad as you are expecting.”

“That’s because you’re only 37.”

“Actually, I’m still 36 until 10.45pm.”

Greg laughed. “Don’t need to rub it in, Mycroft.”

Mycroft laughed too and sipped his wine. “You look quite wonderful. For an older man,” Mycroft added, his eyes playful.

Greg nudged Mycroft’s shin with his shoe. “Watch it. I might be older but I have the stamina of a 20 year old.”

“Is that so?” Mycroft asked, smirking. “I believe I need a practical demonstration.”

“Have you not had enough of those yet?” Greg grinned.

“Not even close,” Mycroft murmured.

Greg let out a hearty laugh, shaking his head. “You’re incorrigible.”

Mycroft laughed at that, and Greg watched him with a grin. “You look so good when you laugh,” Greg said. And then quickly changed the subject before Mycroft could reply. “Tell me what you’ve been up to at work. I saw the bit in the news about that Korean bloke, by the way.”

“Ban Ki-moon?”

“Yeah. Good job.”

Mycroft smiled. “I am ultimately pleased with how that went. North Korea has been causing a lot of headaches recently.”

“Oh, the nuclear test? Yeah, read about that.”

“And you heard about the United Nations Security Council Resolution 1718?”

Greg shrugged. “Maybe. Not enough to remember what it is.”

“It is imposing economic and commercial sanctions on North Korea.”

“You helped write it?” Greg asked.

“No,” Mycroft smiled. “All United Nations states must freeze the overseas assets of individuals and companies involved in the weapons programme. This isn’t a sanction they’re particularly pleased about and I have been sat in all sorts of ridiculous conversations.”

“I can’t figure you out.”

“What do you mean?”

“You just do so much. You’re involved in anything and everything.”

“It was never what I set out to do,” Mycroft said.

“What did you set out to do?”

They fell quiet as the waitress set an enormous platter down between them and handed them a plate each. Mycroft waited for her to walk away before speaking. “Protect the security of the United Kingdom.”

“And now?” Greg asked, thinking of Mycroft’s history in MI5, MI6 and now the Civil Service.

“I continue to help protect the security of the United Kingdom,” Mycroft replied. “With a few more fingers in a few more pies.”

Greg nodded and started taking some food from the platter and loading up his plate. “It’s amazing. Terrifying. You know that right?”

Mycroft nodded. “Yes, sometimes it bothers me too.”

Greg looked up at him. “I like that you’re involved. I feel like the country owes you a massive favour and we don’t even know it.”

Mycroft laughed and shook his head. “Nonsense.”

“Well, I think I owe you a massive favour. For making the past year a lot more bearable after my divorce.” Greg held up his wine. “So, happy birthday, Mycroft.”

Mycroft smiled and tapped their glasses together. “Thank you, Greg.” They held each other’s eyes as they sipped from their wine before beginning on the starter.

Greg ate a prawn and watched as Mycroft glanced at a couple being led to the table behind theirs. Mycroft’s eyes followed them, frowning. “Will you excuse me for a few moments?” Mycroft asked, not looking at Greg.

Greg nodded, looking around at the couple sat on the table behind him. “Course,” he said.

Mycroft stood and took his phone out of his jacket pocket and putting it to his ear as he walked out of the restaurant. Greg watched him through the glass, curious. The conversation looked heated and Mycroft’s jaw was set firm. Greg glanced at the couple again. They looked completely oblivious and incredibly ordinary.

“Everything alright?” Greg asked as Mycroft retook his seat.

“Yes, of course,” he replied, but his voice was firm. Greg knew not to ask any more questions. Greg nodded and continued to eat his food.

Mycroft’s hand reached out to touch Greg’s hand before his fingers slipped under his sleeve and touched his arm. Greg frowned and looked at him. “You alright?” he asked.

“Testing a hypothesis,” Mycroft murmured.

“What hypothesis?”

“I will tell you another time.” Mycroft smiled at him, but it wasn’t a genuine one. Greg had learnt to tell the difference.

“What’s going on, Mycroft?” Greg whispered, glancing at his arm as Mycroft’s thumb stroked against his wrist.

“We are two people enjoying a quiet birthday dinner,” Mycroft replied. “Please, don’t ask me anymore.”

“You’re the one practically holding my hand in public,” Greg muttered.

“I may need to kiss you later too, but I’ll warn you first.”

Greg stared at him. “What the heck is going on?”

“I can’t tell you.”

Greg pulled his arm back and whispered. “Like hell you can’t. You can’t use me in some bizarre game.”

“I’m being watched, Greg,” Mycroft replied. “And you are infinitely safer if they believe we are lovers.”

Greg raised his eyebrows. “I’d have thought I’d be safer if they thought we hardly knew each other.”

Mycroft shook his head. “As lovers you are far less likely to betray me, and therefore will be left alone. Please, Greg, don’t ask anymore.”

“Is it to do with…” Greg tried to look pointedly at the wrist he had broken but Mycroft frowned at him. “You know,” Greg whispered. “The… the stuff that’s been going on. The car crash.”

Mycroft shook his head. “Please, Greg. Don’t ask me anymore.”

Greg pressed his lips together before putting his arm back up on the table. “Fine,” Greg muttered. “But you owe me one hell of a blowjob for going along with this.”

Mycroft smiled across at him, another fake smile, and placed his hand on top of Greg’s as he took a bite of chicken. Greg tried not to look at their joined hands. It was nice, that was for sure. Bit like being in a relationship. A relationship they weren’t supposed to be in. A relationship Greg wanted - did he? Did he want a relationship? One with Mycroft?

Greg glanced up at the other man as he finished his half of the starter. Mycroft’s relaxed expression from earlier in the evening had all but melted away and was frosty and stern.

“Mycroft, if we’re a couple enjoying a birthday dinner, you’re going to have to at least make it look like you like me,” Greg whispered.

Mycroft nodded and licked his lips. He entwined their fingers together and Greg resolved not to look. Because it felt too good. Too right. And it felt like it was some sort of game Mycroft was playing. And Greg was just a playing piece in that game. A playing piece easily put back inside the box once it was finished.

“What have you been doing at work?” Mycroft asked.

Greg took a large swig of wine. “Solving cases,” he replied irritably.

“Greg,” Mycroft warned.

Greg sighed and looked up at him. He looked so apologetic, Greg really wanted to get up and hug him. “Sorry,” Greg whispered.

“No, I’m sorry. Let’s just enjoy dinner, shall we?”

Greg nodded. “It’s your birthday.”

“It is.”

“So, if I have a party for mine, are you coming?”

Mycroft’s thumb began to rub against Greg’s. Greg looked down at their hands, his nails bitten to the quick, while Mycroft’s looked almost as clean and neat as Caroline’s used to. Mycroft’s fingers were so long, Greg thought his own rather stubbly.

“What sort of party are you planning?” Mycroft asked.

Greg couldn’t help himself. He smiled across at him, relaxing back into his chair and for the first time, allowing himself to hold Mycroft’s hand in return. “I’ve got no idea. Maybe just have people round my flat.”

“Any particular people?” Mycroft asked, smiling.

“Could be just you and me,” Greg grinned. “And takeaway and chocolate cake. You’ve got to be naked, obviously.”

“We could do that anytime. It’s your 40th birthday, you should celebrate it properly.”

Greg rolled his eyes playfully. “Fine. You, me. Donovan and Bullock and Carter. And I guess Brockhurst. And then, there’s a couple of mates I play football with. A few from uni as well. Sherlock?”

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. “If you can get Sherlock to go to a party you can chain me up naked to your bed for a week.”

Greg grinned. “Is that so?”

“Yes. But is an impossible task.”

“I’m a stubborn sod.”

“I had noticed,” Mycroft smiled. He let go of Greg’s hand as the waitress approached and began to take the plates away. Greg instantly missed the feel of Mycroft’s thumb stroking his.

“Was everything to your liking?” she asked.

“Wonderful,” Mycroft agreed.

She smiled at them and took the plates away. Greg topped up their wine glasses. “God, why am I going to be 40?”

Mycroft laughed. “I promise when I’m 40 you may tease me mercilessly to make up for it.”

“Can I chain you naked to a bed then too?”

Mycroft looked momentarily taken aback, as though the mention of a date three years in the future when Greg would still want to tie him naked to a bed was inconceivable. Greg was just about to qualify it when Mycroft spoke. “I doubt you would want to. You will of course be 42 then, and I’m not sure you will still have the stamina of a 20 year old.”

“You bastard,” Greg grinned.

Mycroft laughed and sipped his wine.

Greg grinned back and stood up. “I’m just going to use the bathroom.” He walked past the tables to the toilets.

He looked in the mirror, frowning at himself as he washed his hands. What have you done, Greg Lestrade, he asked himself. What the hell were you thinking, believing spending all this time with that man would ever end up anywhere good. Idiot.

Yeah, but it is good, the other half of him said. It’s so bloody good, you’re going to put yourself the emotional wringer for him. Idiot.

Greg walked back to their table and Mycroft smiled at him. Their meals had been brought out to them and Greg took his seat, starting straight away. He nodded appreciatively around a mouthful and Mycroft started his own food soon after.

“You always do that,” Greg said.

“Do what?” Mycroft asked.

“Wait for me to eat first.”

“Oh. I didn’t realise.”

Greg smiled. “It’s not a problem. Just one of the things you do.”

Mycroft smiled, glanced back at the table and then back up at him. “Greg, I-”

“-Is everything okay with your meals?” the waitress asked, interrupting.

Greg nodded. “Yeah, great, cheers.” She smiled and left them to it. Greg looked at Mycroft. “Sorry, what were you going to say?”

Mycroft cut a piece of his food and pressed his lips together. He looked up at Greg. “Only that I wanted to say thank you for this evening.”

Greg smiled. “You’re welcome.”

“This is a very good place. Thank you.”

Greg nodded. “Yeah, it’s alright, isn’t it?”

“What particular eras of history did you study at university?” Mycroft asked.

“Modern history really. From about the Napoleon Wars onward.”

Mycroft nodded. “Driving on the right side of the road is associated with Napoleon.”

Greg grinned at him. “Really?”

“Yes. Before Napoleon, horse riders would stay left on the road and the left would always attack in battle first, as they held their swords in their right hand. Napoleon believed this method of war was out-dated, and changed sides to surprise his enemies. Britain, never conquered by Napoleon, still drives on the left.”

Greg laughed and poured the remainder of the wine. “Genius.”

Mycroft smiled. “He was an excellent tactician.”

“It’s a shame you weren’t around at university. I’m sure you’d have helped me pass my exams.”

Mycroft laughed. “I fear you would have been a bad influence on me.”

Greg tried to look affronted but laughed. “Why’s that?”

“I think you may have tried to keep me in bed rather than attend lectures.”

Greg nodded and shrugged. “Can’t argue with that. What were you like at uni?”

“Much the same as now. I worked long hours.”

“But you had a boyfriend.”

Mycroft nodded. “Yes, Ethan. Although, I would hardly consider him a boyfriend.”

“Why not?”

“I wasn’t interested in a relationship with him.”

“Oh,” Greg murmured, finishing his food. Well, that sounded familiar.

“You lost your virginity young, I assume?” Mycroft asked, putting his knife and fork down.

“Yeah, 16.”

Mycroft nodded. “I was 19.”

“I was 18 with my first guy,” Greg said. “During Freshers Week.”

Mycroft chuckled. “What was he like?”

“Don’t remember,” Greg grinned. “I don’t think we made it out of the club.”

Mycroft laughed. “You were quite a handful, weren’t you?”

“Yeah, definitely,” Greg nodded. “I was the guy parents warned about, I think.”

“While I’m sure that’s true, I imagine you were very well-liked.”

Greg nodded. “Yeah, I guess so. I was part of quite a big circle of friends back then. Not close friends, just… people I went out with.”

“I have changed my opinion. You would have been a good influence on me,” Mycroft said. “I would have welcomed the distraction.”

Greg smiled at him. “I’ll distract you anytime you want.”

Mycroft reached across and stroked Greg’s fingers. The waitress came and took their plates. “Would you like to see the dessert menu?” she asked.

Greg looked over at Mycroft. “D’you want to just go and get a drink somewhere in Covent Garden?”

Mycroft nodded. “Certainly. We will have the bill, please.” The waitress went away and Greg took his wallet out. “Allow me,” Mycroft said.

“No. It’s your birthday, I’m treating you,” Greg insisted.

“You’ve already bought me this,” Mycroft said, gesturing to his tie.

“It looks bloody good too,” Greg grinned. “Seriously. Let me. You can buy me a nice present next month.”

“Greg, when we leave, I would request that we are affectionate with one another.”

Greg looked at him and frowned. “Being spied on still?”

“Almost certainly.”

“How affectionate are we talking?”

“It’s better we don’t plan it and make it look as natural as possible.”

“Being affectionate with you is always bloody natural,” Greg muttered, crossing his arms. “Maybe that’s just me, but I don’t put any thought into it, I just do it.”

“And as I have told you before, I enjoy the physicality of our arrangement.”

“I don’t do it for show, Mycroft. And I kind of hoped you wouldn’t either.”

Greg tried to smile at the waitress as he handed over some cash. She took it to the till and Mycroft put a tip down on the table. They each stood and put their coats on and Greg wrapped his scarf around his neck. Mycroft held his hand out to him. Greg hesitated for a moment before taking it and letting Mycroft lead him out into the street.

Mycroft stopped outside the restaurant and turned and looked at Greg. Greg had seen that look before, the moment he knew Mycroft was going to kiss him. “Please don’t do it,” Greg murmured, looking at him. “I deserve better than that, and you know it.”

Mycroft leaned forward and brushed his lips against Greg’s cheekbone. “Greg, I am sorry,” he whispered against his skin.

“I feel fucking used, Mycroft.”

“I know.”

Greg frowned for a second before turning his head and pressing his lips to Mycroft’s in a brief, chaste kiss. “That wasn’t for show,” he murmured as he pulled back, letting go of Mycroft’s hand. He looked at him, sticking his hands in his pockets. Mycroft’s lips were parted, but the rest of his expression was guarded. Your move, Mycroft Holmes, Greg thought. It’s your move this time.

Mycroft pressed the backs of his fingers to Greg’s cheek, but Greg didn’t move an inch, not leaning into the other man’s fingers, though he wanted to. Mycroft closed the gap between them, bringing their mouths just inches apart. Greg let out a shaky breath, but kept his hands buried in his pockets. Mycroft’s hand closed around his cheek. Mycroft tilted his head and kissed him. Greg sighed and parted his lips as they held the kiss for a few seconds. Mycroft pulled back a little.

Greg looked up at him and swallowed. And he knew Mycroft knew. He must do. Because Greg had just told him not to do it for show, and Mycroft must know it was because for Greg, nothing was show. He’d let himself fall, probably too hard, and now here he was. His face frowning but knowing he was staring at Mycroft with adoration despite himself. And it was going to end, here and now, after a brilliant meal and on Mycroft’s birthday. Because there was no way Mycroft could look at him and not know. So, all in all. Not a brilliant end to the evening. “You know, right?” Greg asked, frowning because he knew Mycroft would understand the question. You know how I feel about you.

Mycroft just nodded. “I know,” he replied, holding Greg’s eyes.

“So this is over,” Greg said, biting his bottom lip.

“No, Greg. Not unless you want it to be.”

Greg shook his head, just a little, barely even hearing Mycroft’s words. Mycroft looked at him for a few seconds before stepping back away from him. “Shall we find somewhere to drink?” he asked.

Greg nodded. “Yeah, let’s do that.” He began to walk away.

“Greg.”

Greg hesitated for a moment before he turned back to him. “What?”

Mycroft was staring at him, his hand curled at his side. Greg swallowed. He remembered seeing Mycroft once, stood beneath a lamppost, a silhouette stood in the dark all alone. He looked small then. Fragile. He looked that way now, somehow. He was the most powerful man Greg had ever met. But he was also just like one of those Greek statues. The muscled ones, with determined faces and made of solid, impossibly strong stone. And broken. Missing limbs and noses. The most beautiful art of their era, and so devastatingly incomplete.

Mycroft pressed his lips together. “You should know too,” he finally said.

Greg felt his mouth drop open and he frowned. “You what?” he managed to ask.

“I _know_ , Greg. And you should know too.”

Greg frowned and then allowed himself a half smile. “So. You knew what I meant.”

“Yes.”

“And you’re… the same. You. The same. As me.”

“Yes.”

“Well, that’s. Enlightening.” Greg laughed, a bit of relief flooding through him. “Enlightening, that’s a word you would use. I’ve been spending too much time with you, Mycroft Holmes.”

Mycroft started to smile.

Greg tried to smile back, but he knew confusion was still etched into his face. “So, wait, wait, wait. Wait.”

Mycroft watched him. Waiting. Greg frowned. He wasn’t sure what he was telling Mycroft to wait for. Wait, so Mycroft had feelings for him too? Was that… was that what they’d been getting at? God, this was confusing. And stupid. And unnecessary, because of course Mycroft definitely knew Greg had feelings for him, because Mycroft was Mr Genius and Mr Super Hero and Mycroft knew everything about everything.

“Wait, so, we had a sexual arrangement,” Greg said.

“Yes.”

“And a physical arrangement.”

Mycroft almost began to look exasperated. “Yes.”

“And you know what I… about you.”

“Yes.”

“And you… I should know that it’s… you too.” It was completely inconceivable. There was no way Mycroft had developed… feelings or anything of that kind.

“Quite,” Mycroft agreed.

Greg frowned again. “Right. Hang on. Wait a sec.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes and stalked over to him, cupping Greg’s face in his hands. He looked right into his eyes. Greg swallowed as Mycroft spoke. “You care about me, and I care about you, and none of that in there was for show, and so can we please go and get that drink now?”

Greg began to smile. “So, hang on…”

Mycroft started to laugh. “Oh, shut up.” He kissed him, and Greg laughed against his lips, until they were laughing together, Mycroft’s hands still holding his face and their lips still brushing together as their bodies shook with laughter.

Greg grinned and shook his head. “You’re ridiculous,” he said, looking at him.

Mycroft appeared bemused. “Thank you.”

“Are we still being spied on?”

“Yes.”

“Do you think that was realistic enough?” Greg asked.

Mycroft smiled, a genuine one. “Yes, I do.”

Greg smiled and touched his arm. “C’mon. Let’s get a drink.”

They began to walk together, their arms occasionally brushing against each other’s. Greg glanced at him, and Mycroft smiled back, pressing his hand against the small of his back as they walked together.

They found a small, dark bar where a man played a piano in the corner. Mycroft found a small table in a corner while Greg ordered them each a whiskey. He brought them over and found he couldn’t take his eyes off the other man for a second. Mycroft raised his eyebrows at him.

“Sorry,” Greg grinned. “I’m still a bit…”

“Bewildered.”

“Yeah.”

Mycroft shuffled his chair closer to Greg so he could get a better view of the pianist. He rested his hand on Greg’s knee. Greg placed his hand on top of Mycroft’s and entwined their fingers.

“This is not a relationship,” Mycroft murmured. “I can’t do promises and flowers and hours spent together in a honeymoon period. I’m finding this hard enough as it is, without the commitment to call you five times a day.”

Greg nodded. “It’s okay. I guessed that already.” He looked at Mycroft and smiled. “And you would never need to call me five times a day.”

Mycroft smiled at him. Greg smiled back and leaned his body against his. The fact his feelings were reciprocated was good enough for Greg for now. Like every step they’d taken together, the moment where they’d finally say ‘yeah, we’re together’ was likely to take a while and come out of no where. Greg knew it would be easier for him. But that Mycroft could be willing to try, sometime, maybe, was an amazing thought. Mycroft rested his cheek against Greg’s hair. They sat together in silence, watching the pianist as they sipped their drinks, hands entwined on Greg’s knee.

 

* * *

 

At 10.48pm, just after Mycroft officially turned 37, they left the bar and Mycroft held the car door open for Greg. Mycroft sat directly beside him, pulling him into a kiss as soon as the car began to move. They couldn’t take their hands off each other during the journey. Greg thought it was impossible how kissing Mycroft could be better than before. The act was the same. But there was something else there, somehow, some intensity he couldn’t place.

They stopped outside Greg’s block of flats in Petty France. Greg kissed him sweetly. “See you soon, yeah?”

Mycroft nodded. “Goodnight.” He kissed Greg once more, pulled back and then kissed him one final time, smiling. “Now go to bed before I kidnap you.”

Greg laughed and got out of the car. He bent over and touched Mycroft’s cheek. “Night.” He smiled at him and stood on the pavement as the car drove away. His heart light, he walked up the stairs to his flat. 


	29. All I Ever Play Are The Cards You Gave Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Every time I post a chapter I get a genuine fear that it was awful and I should really stop because everyone's going to hate it and think I've ruined everything. And then you guys send me comments!  
> Dedicated to: day_dream_girl, cltc75, Spooky831, JustLookFrightenedAndScuttle, Novels, OwlinAutumn, GoldenKhaleesi, MoonRiver, Iridescentkiss, Knowmefirst, artemisdecibal, MisplacedLonelyHeartsAd, Jaeh, KingTaran, WhiskeySally, Velma, oxana, Jill and thetardisisjawnlocked (oh God, I so hope I didn't miss anyone, there were just such a lot of lovely things said!)  
> Because I wake up at 6am after I've posted a chapter and check my emails and when I get comments from you all I feel so much relief that it was okay. This is another chapter the boys took over before I knew what was happening! Enjoy!

_November, 2006_

Greg was walking to work when his phone rang. He smiled when Mycroft’s name popped up on his screen. They hadn’t spoken for a couple of weeks, nothing unusual about that, except Greg had missed him. Not that he’d tell him that, no way.

“Lestrade.”

“Good morning,” Mycroft said.

“Morning. Or afternoon. Or evening. You alright? How’s… wherever you are?”

“New York. And it’s fine. Thank you.”

“Busy?” Greg asked.

“Always.”

Greg smiled. “Me too. Sherlock’s being a pain in the arse.”

Mycroft chuckled. “Of course.”

“When are you back?”

“Two days. I’ll come over.”

“Alright. I’m at the Yard, I need to go.”

“I need to go too. Have a good day.”

“And you. Save the world or whatever it is you’re up to.”

Mycroft laughed. “You have such strange ideas about what it is I do.”

Greg grinned and let himself into the building. “See you in a few days.”

“Of course.” Mycroft hung up and Greg walked to his office, smiling to himself. He caught the grin he was wearing when Sally frowned at him and he smiled sheepishly at her before heading into his office.

Sherlock burst in at 1.45pm. He took one looked at Greg. “Ugh,” he said, shaking his head.

Greg raised his eyebrows at him. “What now?”

“You’ve spoken to Mycroft.”

Greg leaned back in his chair. “Yeah, I have actually. He’s fine, thanks for asking.”

Sherlock shook his head. “I have a case.”

Greg raised his eyebrows. “ _You_ have a case?”

“Yes.”

Greg grinned at him. “You do know I’m the cop and you’re the annoying brat who calls himself a consulting detective, right?”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. “Do you want the case or not?”

“I don’t know. Why do you have a case?”

“From my blog.”

Greg grinned even wider. “You took Mycroft’s advice. You actually listened to your brother. Bloody hell.” Sherlock turned and stormed towards the door. “Hang on!” Greg called after him, stopping himself from laughing. “C’mon, tell me about the case, I’m listening.”

Sherlock turned back around and sat opposite Greg. He handed over a large wad over papers. Greg frowned and started flicking through them. “What is this?”

“My client found it in a park bin.”

Greg raised his eyebrows. “Your client? God help us all if you have clients.” He looked down at the papers. “Looks like business documents.”

“They’re all invoices,” Sherlock said. “Dating back 10 years.”

“Abernetty,” Greg murmured, looking at the header on them. “Why do I know that name?”

“They run a chain of cafes, there’s one a few doors from your old flat.”

Greg nodded. “Abernetty’s Cakes and Teas, I remember. Good place. The smoothies were-” He looked at Sherlock’s face. “Right. Not interested in smoothies.” He looked back at the transactions.

“The cafes have been closed for two weeks,” Sherlock informed him.

Greg frowned. “All of them?”

“Yes. I need to go in and investigate but I can’t have one of your policemen arresting me for breaking and entering, so I need you to let me in.”

“I can’t just go and let you into a load of cafes across London.”

“Why not?”

“Because I need evidence of some sort of wrong-doing or something.”

“Go on then.”

Greg stared at him. “You really have no idea how this all works, do you?”

“Your procedures are boring,” Sherlock informed him. “Anyway. The family is missing.”

“What do you mean the family’s missing?”

“No one’s seen them for weeks.”

Greg sighed and looked at Sherlock. He wouldn’t be interested in a stack of paperwork unless there was something more to it. “I need to get in touch with a different department to see if they’ve tried the cafes, maybe the landlords are after their rent money or something,” Greg said, typing the family name into his computer. Sherlock stood and read the computer screen over his shoulder. “Someone called a missing person’s report,” Greg read off the screen. “Called in by an employee at the Wentworth Street cafe. No one turned up to work two weeks ago. Said all the furniture had been cleared out but no note.” Greg frowned. “Did you read all the invoices?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“Nothing unexpected or out of the ordinary.”

Greg nodded. “Alright then. I’ll sort out a warrant and we can go and check these out together.”

Sherlock nodded and walked to the door. “Donovan and Bullock are together. Did you know?”

Greg frowned. “No. When did that happen?”

Sherlock shrugged and walked out, leaving Greg to it.

 

* * *

 

Greg asked Sally about her and Ed’s relationship the next day. He knew they’d gone for a date once, but that was months and months ago.

“So, how’d it happen?” Greg asked as they drove to a crime scene.

“How’d what happen?” she asked, turning the radio up.

“You and Ed.”

Sally shook her head. “Holmes told you, didn’t he?”

“Yep.”

“His car broke down so I spent a week giving him a lift. We had more in common than we thought.”

Greg smiled. “I’m happy for you.”

Sally smiled and proceeded to talk about the scene they were going to.

 

* * *

 

Greg took the Abernetty files home with him, along with a stack of other paperwork he needed to complete. He was still waiting for permission to go and look around the cafes, but he decided to look through the invoices himself. Sure, Sherlock would probably have seen something out of the ordinary, but it was worth a look anyway.

He had the television on as he stretched out along the sofa, a beer in one hand, paperwork on his lap. He smiled when he heard the knock on the door and got up, smoothing down his shirt as he went to open it. He stepped aside to let Mycroft in.

Greg grinned at him. “Hi.”

“Good evening. How are you?”

“I’m good. You?”

“I’m well.” Mycroft looked across at the sofa. “You’re busy.”

“Nah, it’s alright. Just working on something Sherlock brought over the other day.”

“A case?” Mycroft asked, walking over to the sofa and picking the papers up.

“Yeah, he took your advice.” Greg grinned at Mycroft’s stunned expression. “I was shocked too.”

Mycroft laughed and put the papers back down, putting his own briefcase onto the floor. He looked at Greg and smiled. Greg wandered over to him and kissed him lightly. Mycroft’s arms wrapped around his waist as he deepened the kiss, pressing their bodies close together. Greg relaxed against him, savouring the taste of him, the firm body against his.

He pulled back and touched Mycroft’s cheek. Mycroft leaned in and kissed him again. Greg groaned and stroked the side of his neck. “It’s good to see you,” Greg said, kissing his jaw.

“Yes,” Mycroft murmured, stroking Greg’s back through his t-shirt. They looked at each other.

“You want to-” Greg started.

“Lord, yes,” Mycroft agreed, slamming their lips together. Greg moaned as he stepped closer to Mycroft, backing him into the sofa. Mycroft’s fingers were tugging at his shirt and Greg reluctantly broke the kiss to allow him to take it off. Mycroft stared at him, pressing his fingers against Greg’s chest and preventing him from moving back into a kiss.

Greg laughed. “What?”

Mycroft’s fingers stroked down the centre of his chest, through the hair there. Greg sucked his stomach in as Mycroft’s fingers brushed over it, tickling. Mycroft flattened his hand, moving it back over Greg’s ribs and up to his left pectoral muscle. Greg watched his face, the way his eyes followed his hand moving along Greg’s body.

Greg held Mycroft’s hips, sighing softly as Mycroft’s fingers brushed over his nipple. Greg licked his lips and Mycroft glanced back at his face. “Can we go to your bedroom?” Mycroft asked.

Greg nodded, swallowing. “Sure. Yeah, this way.” He picked his t-shirt up from the floor and took hold of Mycroft’s warm hand, leading them to the room. He threw the shirt into the dirty washing pile and watched as Mycroft leaned down to untie his shoes and take them off. He was wearing the tie pin. Greg’s face broke into a delighted grin. Mycroft frowned for a second before he realised what Greg was smiling at.

“I told you it was wonderful,” he said, stepping closer to Greg.

Greg smiled and grabbed his tie, tugging him closer. “It looks good.” They smiled at each other before kissing again, Greg guiding him towards the bed. Greg lay down on the blue sheets, licking his bottom lip as Mycroft knelt down beside him. “You’re wearing too many clothes,” Greg grinned, unfastening the buttons on Mycroft’s jacket and pushing it off. Mycroft took it from him and put it carefully down on the floor. Greg unbuttoned his waistcoat next. “Getting you naked is like bloody pass the parcel,” Greg laughed.

Mycroft smiled. “I hope we won’t be doing too much… passing.”

Greg grinned and handed the waistcoat to Mycroft to put somewhere. “No chance. I’m not sharing you.”

Mycroft leaned down and kissed the corner of Greg’s lips, his hand cupping the side of his face as he moved to teasingly kiss every inch of Greg’s mouth. Greg chased his kisses, laughing as Mycroft kissed his throat instead. Mycroft moved to lie over him, pressing their bodies close together.

Greg pulled Mycroft’s shirt out of his trousers, his hands wandering up over his back, his finger tracing the curve of his spine. He felt Mycroft shiver against him, the movement pushing their hips together and Greg hooked a leg over Mycroft’s.

And there was the promise of something new there, in that action. It felt like they were both ready to move to the thing they knew was inevitable but put off for the last few months because it almost meant it was more than just a few handjobs between friends. It wasn’t that anymore, and they both knew it.

Greg opened his eyes to take in the sight above him. Mycroft’s cheeks were flushed and Greg kissed lightly there, on each cheek, letting his breath linger against his face. Greg lifted Mycroft’s wrists, one by one, unfastening the gold cufflinks. Those he placed carefully on the side. Mycroft straddled Greg’s hips, sitting up to unfasten his tie. Greg watched him with parted lips, breathing hard.

He stroked Mycroft’s thighs, feeling the soft fabric beneath his fingers. Mycroft closed his eyes as Greg started to unbutton his shirt, and dropped his head down onto Greg’s shoulder. Greg turned to kiss the side of his head, feeling his soft hair against his chin, playfully biting his ear. He heard a soft gasp of approval from Mycroft, as he finally reached the last button.

He felt Mycroft tense as he slid his shirt off, Greg’s hands moving down his back. Greg kissed his neck, flicking his tongue out a fraction to taste the flushed skin. He tossed the shirt to the side.

Mycroft’s face was hot against his shoulder, his ears pink. If it were a woman Greg were about to have sex with, he would tell her she was beautiful. But with no recollection of the words he was supposed to say to another man in such a situation, he finally breathed out “I had dreams of you like this.” He touched Mycroft’s chin, lifting his head to look straight at him. “The reality’s better,” Greg grinned, kissing Mycroft’s top lip. Mycroft smiled a little at the corner of his mouth and Greg just smiled wider.

Greg let his hands wander over Mycroft’s back, the areas of his body he suddenly realised he’d neglected until now. He moved one hand to Mycroft’s chest, feeling the soft hair there. Mycroft watched him intently, and Greg brushed a nail over Mycroft’s nipple. His mouth widened, just a fraction, his tongue flicking out to wet his bottom lip and Greg immediately decided it was the sexiest thing he’d ever seen.

He curled his hand around the back of Mycroft’s neck, pulling his head down for a deep kiss which left them both breathing hard. Their erections pressed together, straining against the fabric of their trousers. They kissed like the world might stop spinning if they stopped, Greg stroking every inch of skin he could find, so many parts of Mycroft he hadn’t touched until now.

How had he not known that Mycroft shuddered when he stroked his nipples. How had it been 10 months, and he hadn’t discovered the way Mycroft gasped when Greg licked the hollow of his throat.

Mycroft sat up, looking down at Greg’s body. Greg smiled at him, a possessive hand on the side of his neck. Mycroft leaned down and flicked his tongue against Greg’s right nipple and Greg arched up to him. “S’good,” Greg murmured reassuringly, running his index finger down Mycroft’s spine. Mycroft shivered and looked up at him. Greg felt himself tremble.

Greg sighed in delight and finally said “I want to touch you all night. But seriously, will you please just…”

The words died on his lips. He wanted to say ‘please just fuck me’. He hoped that Mycroft could look into his eyes and catch his meaning, but instead they spent the next few long seconds staring at each other, testing each other. Greg swallowed as he got lost in Mycroft’s grey eyes. “In that drawer,” Greg finally murmured, inclining his head to the left. Mycroft continued to look at him.

After a short time, Mycroft suddenly moved his arm, wordlessly reaching for the drawer and opening it, and Greg took the moment he was looking away to rub his own face and try and steady his nerves. He sat up a little to kiss Mycroft’s neck, felt the man shiver beside him. He watched as Mycroft retrieved the lube and a condom from the drawer.

Greg made swift work of pulling off his own trousers, laughing as he got his leg stuck around his foot and muttered a swift, slightly embarrassed apology which was cut off by Mycroft’s lips against his. Mycroft’s fingers touched the greying hair on his chest, and he leaned down to kiss across his torso.

His fingers lingered on a scar on Greg’s stomach and Greg mumbled “attempted stabbing” before Mycroft lowered his head to kiss, lick and stroke the mark.

“Eight years old,” Mycroft murmured, licking a line along it.

Greg nodded. “About that, yeah.”

Mycroft continued to study him and Greg watched, his fingers tracing the light freckles on his shoulders. Mycroft kissed a chicken pox scar by his belly button.

Greg smiled, brushing his fingers through Mycroft’s hair. It occurred to him they had been having intermittent sex since January. But like inexperienced partners, they had always rushed to the main event. Stupid, really.

Greg took hold of Mycroft’s shoulders, and used his thighs and strength to push him down onto the bed and straddle his hips. Mycroft frowned at him and Greg grinned and kissed his nose. “My turn,” he said, kissing down Mycroft’s neck. He licked the hollow of his throat again, grinned at Mycroft’s soft inhale of breath.

He kissed down his sternum, kissed around his pectoral muscles, the hair lightly tickling against his cheeks. He looked up at Mycroft’s face as he flicked a tongue against his nipple. Mycroft’s body was shaking as he curled a hand on Greg’s shoulder. Greg continued to kiss down his chest. He looked at a faint scar under Mycroft’s right nipple.

“Fencing accident,” Mycroft murmured. Greg kissed lower, and licked a long white line just underneath his ribs. “Ah. Time in Iran.” Greg found another circular scar on Mycroft’s side. Unmistakable cigarette burn. “Sherlock,” Mycroft whispered. “On heroin.”

“Shit,” Greg muttered, kissing the mark a few times. He found another scar on his stomach.

Mycroft chuckled a little. “Fell off a wall.”

Greg grinned up at him. “Tell me you were drunk and there’s a hilarious story to go with it.”

“No such luck. I was five.”

“Roll over,” Greg said. “I want to see all of you.”

Mycroft stayed still for a moment. “You won’t like it,” he said.

Greg kissed his hip. “It’s you. I’ll definitely like it.”

Mycroft nodded before rolling over. Greg stretched back up, nuzzling Mycroft’s neck. He sat up a bit, at first taking in the sight of those delightful freckles over Mycroft’s back. Then he saw the deep scars, five of them, stretching from one side to the other.

“Iran again,” Mycroft murmured. “10 years ago.”

“You’re never going back to Iran then,” Greg muttered, tracing the long lines with his fingers. “Bloody hell.” Greg kissed the back of his neck. “Can you tell me what happened?”

“They were just getting started,” Mycroft murmured.

“Started on what?”

“Torture.” Mycroft rolled over, closing a hand around Greg’s cheek. “I’m not going back to Iran.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.” Greg leaned down to kiss him. They shared a few tender kisses, Mycroft’s hands wandering over Greg’s back and against his boxers. “Lie down, Greg,” Mycroft said softly and Greg rolled off him, lying down on his back.

Greg unfastened Mycroft’s trousers as he straddled his body, pushing them down as far as they would go from that position, leaving him to finish the job and take his socks off afterwards.

He caught Mycroft’s eyes, felt his own shoulders shake slightly in apprehension, as Mycroft stretched up, brushing his lips against Greg’s cheekbone as they pressed their bodies together.

Greg lifted his hips when Mycroft moved to pull Greg’s boxers down, precome leaking onto the hair surrounding his cock.

Mycroft just gazed at his face, his red lips parted. Greg reached out, touching his cheek. He nodded in consent, parting his legs, feeling his body tense up slightly in response, the knowledge of what was to come both making him feel more desperate, yet more nervous at the same time.

He didn’t watch as Mycroft reached for lubricant on the pillow, instead he focused on eyeing up as much of the man’s body as he could, his fingers dancing over the light freckles on his shoulders, his eyes tracing the wrinkles on his forehead and the light pink mark Greg had left on his neck.

He didn’t need to say ‘take it slow’ because he knew Mycroft knew.

Mycroft picked up one of the pillows, and Greg lifted his hips to help him place it underneath him.

Greg closed his eyes for a second as he spread his legs slightly further, expecting a firm finger and cold lubricant to press against his hole but gasped and groaned and opened his eyes wide when Mycroft’s lips closed around his cock instead.

“Oh please,” Greg moaned wantonly, one hand curling in the sheets, the other reaching to touch Mycroft’s shoulder. Pleading, desperate, for something he already had.

Mycroft’s finger pressed against his entrance, and Greg felt the muscles tense and relax against it. He let in a long breath as Mycroft took him deeper into his mouth, easing his finger gently up to the second joint. He lifted his mouth, licked a line along Greg’s cock and Greg gasped as he pushed his finger completely inside him. They both stilled.

They held each other’s eyes.

Greg let out a few long, steadying breaths. Mycroft seemed to be reading his expression. Greg didn’t try to hide anything from his face, he wanted Mycroft to know, to see, how good it was, how right he felt.

Mycroft moved his finger, just slightly and it didn’t feel quite as foreign as it had just moments before.

“That’s good,” Greg murmured, squeezing Mycroft’s shoulder.

Mycroft smiled a little, slowly, so tortuously slowly, withdrawing his finger most of the way before pressing it back in again.

Greg let out a quiet, embarrassing whine. “Mycroft, we’ll be here all night if you do everything at that speed.”

Mycroft smiled, kissing Greg’s stomach. “Do you mind if we do?”

“No,” Greg admitted, grinning.

Mycroft chuckled, moving his finger and making Greg gasp. “We can take all night.”

“Maybe you can, but I’m going to die if you don’t fuck me soon.”

“You’re always prone to such hyperbole, Greg,” Mycroft said softly, and started to add a second finger.

“Only bloody you would say hyperbole in bed,” Greg muttered, spreading his legs a little wider, biting his bottom lip. “Just, hold there a sec,” he said, as he felt the slight burn.

Mycroft kissed his hip, reaching with his other hand to touch Greg’s arm. Greg looked down, moving his hand to entwine his fingers with Mycroft’s.

Somehow, even with two of Mycroft’s fingers buried inside him, months of orgasms in rooms and on furniture all over Mycroft’s home, holding their hands together in such a way continued to be the most intimate thing they had ever done together.

Greg’s dark eyes met Mycroft’s grey ones, and Greg pressed his hips down against Mycroft’s fingers, forcing his body to relax. “Go on,” he said.

Mycroft gently squeezed his fingers, and Greg looked back down to where their hands were joined, long fingers wrapped around his own. He glanced at Mycroft, his flushed face, his eyes solely focused on Greg’s expressions, checking for any signs of discomfort or pleasure as he carefully, so carefully stretched the tight muscle.

His finger moved unexpectedly and Greg lifted his hips, a stream of indistinguishable curse words leaving his mouth. It had been years, years since he’d felt that. And he’d forgotten how wonderful it was.

From between his legs, Mycroft was smiling, repeating the action as Greg gripped tighter to his hand.

“Greg, you’re going to break my fingers,” Mycroft murmured, but his face was warm, relaxed.

Greg laughed. “Take it as a compliment,” he said, relaxing his grip but refusing to let go of Mycroft’s hand. Instead, he let his thumb rub against Mycroft’s. Mycroft continued to move his fingers for a few more moments, and just when he applied pressure with the third, Greg said, “no, just do it.”

“Are you sure?” Mycroft asked.

“Hundred percent,” Greg replied, gasping as Mycroft withdrew his fingers.

Greg picked up the condom and slowly ripped open the packet. He dropped the foil down beside the bed reaching for Mycroft.

Mycroft moved up to him, kissing Greg square on the mouth and shivering as Greg sheathed his cock. Greg left Mycroft to deal with the lubricant, as he adjusted the pillow beneath his hips, watching as Mycroft stroked the thick liquid over his member.

Greg lifted one leg slightly as Mycroft pressed against him, and Greg prepared himself for the burn, the stretch. The memory that the first time he ever did this he thought ‘never again’ only to realise just before he came that the burn, the stretch was part of it.

The pain was more than he expected, and Greg felt his face scrunch up. Mycroft’s fingers returned to his, taking hold of Greg’s hand again. “Try not to tense,” Mycroft said, and Greg listened to him, sitting up a bit to press his lips to Mycroft’s chin.

Mycroft didn’t move, just kissed over Greg’s jaw as Greg forced his body to relax into the mattress. Relax against Mycroft.

There were many thoughts that raced through his mind as Mycroft slowly pressed deeper into his body. His first time, that last time he’d been with a man, two nights before he met Caroline, God, Caroline, that felt like an eternity ago, and how on earth had Sherlock Bloody Holmes led him to this man and this moment and oh God, he felt Mycroft press into him fully and Greg relaxed as he let the other man into his body.

And in that moment, all the thoughts went back to the present day, and this man with his fingers wrapped around his own.

With his other hand, Greg reached up to touch Mycroft’s face, and he leaned to kiss him. It was a messy kiss as Mycroft began to rock his hips, and Greg thought it was perfect to watch him change from precise, measured kisses to those desperate, almost sloppy ones when he was too far gone in his own pleasure - and Greg’s pleasure - to think of the perfect place his lips should go, when to use his teeth and how to move his tongue.

Greg tried his best to take in the scene, but as so often, he found he struggled to tear his eyes from the intense gaze above him. He heard his mouth give way to groans of pleasure as Mycroft tilted his hips _just there_ , and he listened to Mycroft’s near-silent gasps, the shudders of his breath. 

Having Mycroft Holmes inside him, staring at him through those intense eyes of his, was like nothing he’d imagined. Those damned feelings he’d been denying for so long rushed into his consciousness as he moved his hips with Mycroft’s movements, desperate to keep him close.

Mycroft wrapped his hand around Greg’s cock. It was too much, having Mycroft inside him, watching his face, parted lips, wide grey eyes. Stunning, beautiful, perfect man. Greg let go soon after, his body shuddering, feeling his muscles tighten around Mycroft’s prick, and although his eyes were tightly shut and he didn’t see it, he knew the moment Mycroft let go too a few uncontrolled thrusts later.

Greg breathed hard and watched Mycroft try his hardest not to just collapse onto him.

It was only when Greg felt his toes uncurl against Mycroft’s leg just after he began to come down from the high, that he realised he was still wearing his socks.

As Greg traced small patterns over Mycroft’s back with his index finger, he felt oddly comforted by that thought. Like they still hadn’t had sex completely naked. Completely exposed.

Greg winced slightly as Mycroft withdrew from him, feeling sore as he moved.

Mycroft moved to sit on the edge of the bed, removing the condom and cleaning up. He handed Greg a tissue, and Greg made a contented sound as he cleaned himself up. Greg sat up, and pressed a soft kiss to Mycroft’s shoulder. “Alright?” Greg asked, kissing his neck.

“Mm,” Mycroft agreed, turning around to face him. Greg lay back down on the bed, stretching out across it. Mycroft moved to lie beside him, extending one arm along his chest. Greg stroked his skin, closing his eyes for a few brief seconds. He needed to get up and use the bathroom in a moment, but he wanted to wait, just savour this for as long as he could.

Mycroft kissed his chest. “I’m just using the bathroom,” he said. “And I have work to do, I’m afraid.”

“You can do it here,” Greg told. “I’ll grab my paperwork too.”

Mycroft kissed him lightly. “Very well.” He got up and picked Greg’s dressing gown up from the cupboard door handle. He wrapped himself in it as he left the room to go the bathroom.

Greg stretched and smiled as he grabbed a clean pair of boxers and his pyjama trousers. He put on a t-shirt and walked into the living room. He kissed Mycroft’s cheek as they swapped places for the bathroom.

He walked out 10 minutes later and found Mycroft in his trousers and shirt on the sofa, paperwork already open. Greg sat down beside him and leaned over to give him a quick kiss before picking up his own work. Mycroft glanced at him. “Come on,” he said. “Put your feet up here.”

Greg grinned and stretched out along the chair, putting his feet in Mycroft’s lap. Mycroft rested his paperwork on Greg’s legs and they sat working, the only sounds the rustling of paper and occasional murmur.

“So, what you up to?” Greg asked after around an hour.

“Preparing for a G20 summit. I’m supposed to be going in some sort of advisory role, although goodness knows why, it is totally out of my remit. Can you pass me that pen?”

Greg picked it up from the table and handed it over. He turned a page in his own paperwork. They sat in silence for another half an hour, both working.

“Would you like a drink?” Mycroft finally asked.

“Yeah, that would be great. I think I’ll have a beer. I still have that whiskey you brought over once. Do you want that?”

“I’ll get it,” Mycroft said, rubbing Greg’s shin before standing up. Greg smiled as he watched him go into the kitchen. Mycroft returned with a tumbler and beer for Greg. He put them down on the table before bending down and giving Greg a sensual kiss. He sat back down and returned to his work.

“This is utterly ridiculous,” Mycroft said after another half an hour had passed. “Who in their right mind thought this fell under my jurisdiction?” He dropped the papers on the table.

“Your jurisdiction is always expanding,” Greg grinned at him.

“Well, I wish it wouldn’t. As though I have nothing better to do than travel to Australia to watch people discuss economies, pretending any of them have the power to do anything about it.”

Greg shook his head in disbelief. “Your insights into the way the world is governed worry me.”

“True power doesn’t lie in conversation. It lies in action and making the correct decision at the right time. A skill most politicians are sadly lacking.”

“I think you’re pretty good at conversation and action. And at the same time.”

Mycroft smirked. “I couldn’t possibly understand what you are referring to.”

“Sure, you couldn’t.”

Mycroft leaned across and kissed him, pulling Greg’s files out of his hands and dropping them onto the floor. He pressed into Greg’s body, pushing him down onto the sofa.

“Supposed to be working,” Greg reminded him.

“But it’s tedious.” Mycroft nipped his bottom lip and Greg shuddered. “And I know it all. I could tell you. You said you believed I was ‘pretty good’ at conversation and action.”

Mycroft’s hand found the front of Greg’s trousers and he rubbed there, kissing down his jaw. He pinned Greg’s arm down with one hand. “The G20 was formed in 1999, made up of 20 finance ministers and central bank governors.”

He squeezed Greg’s cock through the fabric and he shuddered, trying to chase Mycroft’s mouth as he pressed kisses to Greg’s filtrum, jaw, cheekbone and then back to his neck.

“Collectively, the G20 economies account for 85 per cent of the gross world product, 80 per cent of world trade and two-thirds of the world’s population.”

Mycroft bit down on Greg’s neck and he groaned. God, listening to Mycroft talk politics should not be making him this hard.

“This year, they will be discussing the outlook of the global economy, the impact of demographic change on global financial markets and further reform of the International Monetary Fund and the World Bank.”

Mycroft slowly pulled down the zip of Greg’s trousers. “And the aim is to take advantage of the present strength,” Mycroft gripped Greg’s arm tighter, pushing him harder into the sofa as though to make the point, “in the global economy to get policy settings right.”

Mycroft began to kiss down Greg’s throat, letting go of his arm as he went. Greg tipped his head back in disbelief at the situation he found himself in. “And markets between two or more economies are characterised by clear signals,” Mycroft murmured, rubbing his cheek against Greg’s cock. “Open trade…” He unfastened the button and Greg lifted his hips to help him pull his trousers down to his ankles. “Market transparency.” He breathed over Greg’s cock through his boxers and the sudden heat made him gasp and writhe on the chair. Mycroft held his hips still. “Good governance,” he whispered huskily, rubbing his thumb over the head through the cotton. “And effective competition.”

Greg groaned and almost laughed in delight and amusement at this insane one-way conversation Mycroft was initiating with him. Although he couldn’t concentrate on a single thing Mycroft was saying right now he was trying to, really he was, but his voice was making him melt. Was Mycroft comparing them to economies? It was all confusing but oh so, so wonderful. Mycroft’s dirty talk was the very opposite of dirty, yet ridiculously arousing. It shouldn’t have been possible.

“And how do we do that?” Mycroft asked slowly peeling down Greg’s boxers. “We must allocate our most productive resources to their most highly-valued uses.” He licked a line down Greg’s cock and Greg cried out, gripping the sofa.

“Oh God,” Greg moaned, tangling his fingers in Mycroft’s hair.

“On the contrary, Greg. Economics, not religion.” Mycroft wrapped his lips around Greg’s cock and took him deep in his mouth, humming around him.

“Fuck,” Greg said, curling his toes. “God, your mouth.”

Mycroft lifted his head and looked up at him. “As I said. We must allocate our most productive resources to their most highly-valued uses. And this is a demonstration of such economic questions those incompetent ministers will be attempting to resolve in Australia.”

Mycroft’s mouth returned to Greg’s cock, his tongue flicking out against him. Greg shuddered, watching him. That was it. It was official. Mycroft’s mouth was the best invention the world had ever seen no question, whether he was using it to solve economic crises, order people around or suck Greg’s cock so hard he was seeing stars.

Oh and Mycroft knew how to get him. Knew those spots which drove him absolutely wild. He was trying to hold his hips still but it was desperately difficult, and Mycroft’s hand cupped his balls and it took so much power to not just come on the spot. He didn’t want it to end but needed it at the same time, and then Mycroft’s finger dipped behind his balls, pressing that spot there.

“Oh holy fuck,” Greg cried out. Mycroft lifted his head and gazed up at him. “Wait, what?” Greg breathed, staring at him. “Why have you stopped?”

“Economic policies are not so easily resolved,” Mycroft murmured. “Sometimes during those conversations, the ministers believe they are close to a resolution, when someone suddenly puts an amendment on the table.”

“Amendment?” Greg laughed, almost hysterically as he tried to get some purchase on his cock. “What’s the amendment?”

“There are other resources,” Mycroft said, as though it was obvious. He wrapped his hand around Greg’s prick and squeezed. “There are other uses.”

He took hold of Greg’s leg, lifting it up as he brushed his tongue against his balls. Greg thought he knew what was coming. Apprehension began to mix with his pleasure, and then Mycroft pressed his tongue against his hole. He was so sensitive after the sex they’d had earlier, sore but the sensation of Mycroft’s tongue brushing against him, not too hard, was enough to make him forget it in an instant.

Greg shuddered, almost incapable of sound now as Mycroft’s tongue darted against him, flicking and licking and then returning to his balls. He was totally unable to think as Mycroft’s tongue returned back to the tight muscle, pressing against him as he began to stroke his cock. Greg’s fingers scrambled against Mycroft’s shoulder as he pressed down towards Mycroft’s tongue and then back up into his hand it was all too much as he curled his toes as he came hard over Mycroft’s fingers.

Mycroft stroked him through before crawling up and kissing him. Greg relaxed into the kiss as his body slowly relaxed.

“So, who said the G20 was boring ‘ey?” he grinned, stroking Mycroft’s face. “You’re unbelievable.” Mycroft smiled and kissed him again before sitting up and handing Greg his paperwork. “Don’t you want…”

“I’ve distracted us both enough,” Mycroft said, but kissed his cheek.

Greg smiled, cleaned himself and pulled his boxers up before turning the page. They returned to their work in silence.

It was an hour later when Greg put his paperwork down on the table. Mycroft was still scribbling notes on the side of his, so Greg swung his legs off his lap, shuffling up to the other end of the sofa to lean a bit into his side.

Mycroft wrapped an arm around his shoulders, drawing him in closer. Greg smiled and closed his eyes, just resting against Mycroft’s side. After several minutes, Mycroft put his work down on the table, pulling Greg closer to him. Greg kissed the side of his neck. “S’late,” he murmured, stroking Mycroft’s thigh.

“Mm.” Mycroft turned his head, capturing his lips with his own. “I should go in a moment.”

“You could stay.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

Greg nodded and nuzzled his neck. He understood where Mycroft was coming from. Sex, then hugging, then sex and hugging with feelings were one thing. Staying the night. Now that was a relationship. And for a man with massive intimacy issues, Greg supposed that was one line they wouldn’t get to yet.

But even so, Mycroft closed his eyes as he rested his cheek on Greg’s hair.

Greg sighed, putting his legs back on Mycroft’s lap as they curled up together. Closing his eyes had made him tired, relaxed against the other man’s warm body. He could stay like this for hours. He wished they could stay like this all night. Or even better, all night wrapped up in his bed. But Mycroft wasn’t his to push. And he really didn’t want to push so hard that Mycroft gave up and ran away forever.

“Greg?”

“Mm?”

“I am moving in a moment.”

Greg smiled, amused. “Okay.”

“I will move. In a moment.”

Greg nodded. “I believe you.”

Mycroft nodded too and tightened his hold. Greg sighed and took hold of his hand, linking their fingers together.

“Greg?”

“Mm?”

“I find myself unable to move.”

Greg laughed and kissed Mycroft’s jaw. “Stay.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“It’s not that I don’t want to,” Mycroft murmured, looking at him and stroking their fingers together.

Greg nodded. “I know. It’s okay, I get it.”

“I will,” Mycroft said, so quietly, like saying the words was physically difficult. “Another day.”

Greg looked up and kissed him. “It’s alright. Honest. I know.”

Mycroft smiled and let go of Greg’s hand. Greg sat up to let him move, and Mycroft walked into the bedroom, collecting his clothes. He put his jacket on and Greg stood up to wrap his arms around his neck.

“Call me sometime, yeah?”

Mycroft smiled and kissed him. “I will.”

“Tonight’s been amazing.”

“Yes. I am looking forward to the repeat.”

Greg grinned and gave him one more quick kiss before leading him to the door. “See you soon, right?”

“Perhaps your birthday.”

Greg smiled and kissed his cheek. “That would be good.”

Mycroft nodded and smiled tiredly at him before opening the door. “Goodnight.”

“Night.” Greg closed the door behind him, sighing from the loss of him going, but the delight of the evening they had spent together.  


	30. We've Danced These Shoes To Pieces

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For: Mice, oxana, Jalizar, JustLookFrightenedAndScuttle, Novels, ShipsIntoDarkness, OwlinAutumn, MisplacedLonelyHeartsAd, WhiskeySally, Velma, KingTaran and Jill. I love you all.  
> This is the last chapter until Sunday, as I am away this weekend. I CANNOT believe this is the 30th chapter. How!?  
> Music and lyrics provided by Jeff Buckley.

_November, 2006_

The next day, Sherlock and Greg were stood outside Abernetty’s Cakes and Teas. Cafe number one on their list. Greg folded his arms as he waited for the building’s landlord to open the doors and let them in. They followed the landlord into the building and looked around. It was completely empty. Greg frowned. No tables, no chairs, just empty floors and plain white walls.

The landlord frowned. “That’s weird.”

Sherlock began to search every inch of the former cafe, leaving Greg to watch and talk to the landlord, who said he pretty much left the family to their own devices. He told Greg how they’d never missed a rent payment, but he had no idea how long the cafe had been closed for. Greg was just considering wandering outside to ask some of the neighbours – and weighing up the dangers of leaving Sherlock alone – when his phone rang from a New Scotland Yard number.

“Lestrade.”

“It’s Ed.”

“Hi. Everything alright?” Greg asked him.

“We’ve got a body of an old woman in Orsman Place. We’re being called in to go and see if it’s natural causes or not.”

“Meaning there’s a possibility it’s not.”

“Pretty much, yeah.”

“What’s the name?” Greg asked.

“Margaret Abernetty.”

Greg stared at Sherlock, who saw his expression and frowned. “What?” Sherlock asked.

“Margaret Abernetty?” Greg repeated.

“Yeah. Why?”

Sherlock started walking towards him, a hand outstretched as though he was about to tear the phone from Greg’s ear. Greg leaned out of his reach. “Nothing, just I’ll meet you there in about 20 minutes.”

“See you, boss.”

Greg hung up the phone. “Body of a Margaret Abernetty has just turned up.”

“Don’t recall a Margaret Abernetty,” the landlord said. “I remember a Joan, and Marcus, he was the main man. He paid the rent and ran the cafe.”

“We need to go,” Greg told him. “Thanks for your help.”

“It’s been closed about 12 days,” Sherlock said as they walked out. “Based on the amount of mould on a cake on the floor.”

Greg nodded. “Alright, I’ll believe you on that one.”

Sherlock got into the car and Greg watched the landlord lock up before driving away towards Orsman Place.

The bungalow they were looking for was obvious from the police car outside. Greg and Sherlock got out – Greg had to give him another quick warning about gloves, just to be on the safe side – and they walked up to the property. Ed was there overseeing the operation.

Greg collected the forensics gear, passing it to Sherlock, who only grumbled a little.

The dead woman was slumped forward in her kitchen chair, her head resting in a baking tray. There was some green mould growing on the uncooked biscuits.

Sherlock walked over and began inspecting, while Anderson watched him from a distance, glaring. Sherlock knelt down as he inspected her clothes, her hair, her fingers. He looked at the table. “She’s been dead around two days. Someone’s stolen her jewellery.”

“How’d you know?” Greg asked.

“She wore three rings, you can see that from the hard skin around the bottom of her fingers and the tan lines. Worn for years, by the looks of it. But they’re all missing.”

“Could have taken them off to cook,” Greg pointed out.

Sherlock shook his head. “Then she would have kept them somewhere safe. Somewhere nearby. Any jewellery, Anderson?”

Anderson’s head snapped up as he was addressed. “No,” he said, folding his arms.

“She has a lot of money, but she lives well below her means.”

“Explain it to me,” Greg said, looking around.

“This is an old property, inexpensive in London-terms. But the coats, bags and shoes by the door are all designer, some hardly worn, so they’re not second hand. There’s a receipt here on the table for a dress costing £6,250.”

Greg leaned over and looked at it. “Right. So she liked the finer things in life then.”

“She had money – a lot of it – and someone has taken her rings. They’ve left the earrings and the coats, so it looks like they weren’t after the majority of her possessions. So what were they after? Money, probably. They’re probably named in the will. Abernetty family comes over, she’s expecting them. Look, she’s made them biscuits. Cinnamon biscuits. And then they poisoned her, took her rings and now they will sit and wait for the will to be processed so they can take the money. They’ve closed Abernetty’s Cakes and Teas. Who needs to run a cafe with the amount of money they’re set to inherit?”

“Relatives then,” Greg said.

“Almost certainly.”

“Find the Abernetty family, find the killer. Looks like this one’s come together quite nicely. If we can find the family.”

“There’s a clue in the invoices, I’m sure,” Sherlock said. “They’re obsessed with money, they wouldn’t just leave their profits sitting in a bank account. I’ll need another look at them.”

Greg frowned. He’d read those documents backwards and forwards and sideways. “Kent,” he said.

Sherlock’s eyes widened as he looked at him. “Yes.”

Greg started to grin. “I just worked something out quicker than you.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Oh, so you’re marginally less idiotic than everyone else you work with, congratulations.”

Greg continued to beam as he followed Sherlock out of the bungalow. “Ah, but the key word there, Holmes. Less idiotic.”

Sherlock turned and raised his eyebrows at him. “Are you finished?”

Greg continued to smile, but nodded. “Yeah. You’re going to leave this case to me now, aren’t you?”

“Yes. It’s boring now.”

Greg nodded. “I need to make some calls to people down in Kent to wrap all this up anyway. If we’re right and it goes to court, you can shove it up on your blog.” Sherlock began to walk away. “Oi! Sherlock!”

Sherlock turned around. “What?”

“Cheers, mate. Couldn’t have done it without you.”

Sherlock half-smiled. “I know.” He began to walk away and Greg wandered back into the bungalow to kick the investigation into the next gear.

 

* * *

 

Solving cases felt like winning the lottery. Two weeks later, signed, sealed, delivered.

Greg received an email from his Commander with a list of statistics from his department for the past four years. The past 12 months had been significantly better than previous years. Greg passed the figures around. Even the most die-hard Sherlock hater had to admit the man had done them a few favours during that time.

 

* * *

 

To: Donovan, S; Bullock, E; Brockhurst, S; Carter, G  
BCC: Holmes, Mycroft  
Subject: Birthday

Hi,  
I’m turning the big 4-0 next friday and fancied a get together at mine. I’m inviting you lot and some football and uni friends. Boyfriends, girlfriends, wives, husbands etc all welcome.  
BYOB, RSVP, etc.  
Cheers,  
Greg.

 

Mycroft never replied to the email. Greg knew how busy he was, so never questioned it. He couldn’t really imagine Mycroft hanging around all those people anyway.

 

* * *

 

Greg got out of the shower and hurried to his bedroom. He was almost running late for his own birthday party. He quickly towel-dried his hair, rifling through his shirts until he found a stripy one he liked and putting it on with some jeans. He fluffed his hair and turned the music on just as the first knock came on the door.

Donovan and Edmund were the first to arrive, each carrying a bottle of wine. Greg smiled. “Come in. Make yourself at home.”

“So, how you feeling, old man?” Sally grinned at him.

Greg rolled his eyes. “Right. Get out. You’re uninvited.”

Sally laughed and handed him a card. “Happy birthday, boss.”

Greg smiled and opened it. “Cheers.”

He looked at the card. It had 1966 written in the middle with all the big events from that year he was born written around it. He opened it.

 _To Greg,_  
 _Only as young as the man you feel._  
 _Happy birthday.  
_ _Love Sally & Ed._

Greg smiled and stood the card up on the table. “Cheers, guys. Nibbles are over there and glasses and cups are just here.” He handed them each a wine glass. “Go mad.”

Sally laughed. “You went to a lot of trouble.”

“No, I just bought a lot of booze.”

Edmund patted him on the back. “Happy birthday, Lestrade.”

Greg smiled and picked up a beer. “Cheers.”

Sally and Ed put their coats down on the floor beside the sofa.

Carter and his wife were next, bringing him more beer and adding to the coat pile. Sam Brockhurt brought a bottle of sambuca and shot glasses. Greg eyed them warily. “I’m not sure that’s such a good idea,” he said, looking at it.

Sam grinned at him and patted his arm. “It’s for later. You’re only 40 once.”

“Thank God,” Greg muttered. He and Sam spent a few minutes talking about the Premier League table and predictions for the season before some of Greg’s university friends arrived.

The evening passed smoothly and quickly. Several beers later and Greg was chatting to Ed and Carter about football again, debating the merits of Theirry Henry’s style of play. That was when Sam brought the sambuca over.

“No, no, no!” Greg said, laughing when he saw the bottle. “No chance. Not happening. Nope.”

Sam sat down on the table opposite the sofa. Greg watched past him where Sally was in hysterical laughter as she talked to Carter’s wife and one of Greg’s university friends. He glanced at the door. Still no Mycroft. He looked at his watch, where it read 11.23pm. No Mycroft for the whole evening then, more than likely.

“Too old?” Sam asked, grinning. “C’mon, just one shot. I’ll never call you old again.”

“And what are you, 30?” Greg asked.

Sam looked put out. “27. For that insult, you can do a shot.”

“Bloody hell,” Greg groaned, holding his hand out. Not like Mycroft was going to see him this plastered. “Go on. One.”

Sam laid the shot glasses out on the table, pouring each of them a glass. “I propose a toast,” he said. “To Arsenal winning the Premier League and to Lestrade not getting bashed into the Thames this year.”

Greg laughed and picked up a shot glass. “I will drink to that.” He tapped the glass to Sam’s, knocking back the clear liquid. He pulled a face and quickly had a swig of his beer. “Uch. Why did you make me do that?”

Sam started pouring more sambuca. “Carter and Ed, your turn.”

Carter held his hands up. “I’m even older than Lestrade. You won’t catch me on that stuff in a million years.”

Sam pressed the glass into his hand, and gave Greg and Ed each other.

Greg groaned. “Really? Do I have to?”

“Let’s play a game,” Sally said, walking up to them and sitting on the arm of the sofa. She leaned against Greg’s shoulder.

Greg looked up at her. “What are we, 18 all of a sudden?”

“C’mon, boss,” she grinned.

Greg rubbed his hands over his face. “Someone please wake me from this nightmare.”

“We could, but you’ll still be 40 in the morning,” Sam said, beaming at him.

Greg laughed. “I’m liking you less and less with every minute that passes.” Sally picked a shot glass up and handed one to Greg. “Sally, no, I cannot do another one of these,” Greg groaned. She tapped her glass to his.

“On three,” she said. Greg rolled his eyes and did the shot with her. He finished his beer and the conversation moved to films and to football and back to work.

Which was how, at 12.54am, Greg found himself alone of the sofa with Sally. Carter and his wife had gone home and Ed and Sam were playing some ridiculous game with plastic cups with some of Greg’s football mates.

“How’ve you been?” Sally asked, sipping her wine.

“Good, yeah.”

“Been a while since we had a proper chat.”

Greg looked at her. “Been busy I guess.”

She nodded. “Being a DI and Sergeant will do that for you. How’s your love life?”

Greg laughed. “Cut to the chase, Sal.”

She smiled and nudged him. “C’mon, let me fix you up with someone.”

“Nope. I’m fine, honestly. Now tell me about you and Ed.”

Sally laughed. “What do you want to know?”

“Just… explain it to me.”

“It was after your injury. His car had broken down and he was cycling into work but he lives quite a trek away so I picked him up for a week. And we just… talked. A lot.”

“You went for a date before though, right?”

Sally nodded. “Yeah. But it was too soon after Rich.”

“Ah. Forgot about Rich.”

“Anyway, it’s good. C’mon on, Greg. There’s got to be a woman somewhere you like.”

Greg chuckled. “There’s not.” There really was not at all. Very opposite in fact. The thought made him smile, though he wished Mycroft was there. He stretched his legs out. God, the world was spinning, music reverberating through his ears.

“Why not? It’s been about a year. You should find someone.”

“Maybe I already have,” Greg grinned and looked at her. “Not saying a word though.”

“You’ve met someone?” Sally stared at him. “Why don’t I know about this?”

“I’ve not really met… we’re not… together or anything.”

“But you’re seeing someone?”

Greg shrugged. “Sort of. I haven’t seen… them for a while but, yeah. When we’re both free we get together.”

“What’s her name?”

Greg laughed nervously. “What’s your obsession with my love life recently?”

“I just want you to be happy,” she said, and Greg looked at her and knew she meant it.

He sighed. “I like someone. Alright, I do. It’s good, whatever it is.”

“You’re not together though?”

Greg shrugged. “He’s not really the relationship type.” Sally didn’t reply. Greg looked at her frown and she was staring at him open-mouthed. Greg rewound the conversation in his head. Oh shit. “Uh… I just mean…”

“You’re seeing a bloke?” Sally whispered, still staring at him.

Greg sighed and nodded. “Yeah, but keep that to yourself, alright? And we’re not seeing each other exactly, we’re just…” Shagging. A lot. “Spending time together.”

“Since when?”

“Since January.”

“No, I mean since when were you gay?”

“I’m not,” Greg laughed. “I’ve always been interested in men and women, Sal.”

She laughed and nudged him. “You dark horse. Now you have to tell me. Is he fit?”

Greg laughed. “He’s alright, yeah.”

“Who is he? Where’d you meet?”

“We met… at work, kind of. He’s not from work,” he added quickly. “We just met sort of because of work.”

“Do I know him?”

Greg sighed. “You’ve met him, yeah.”

“Is he here?”

“No. I kinda hoped he would be, but he’s busy.”

“Greg.”

“Yeah?”

Sally stared at him. “It’s not the freak is it?”

Greg burst out laughing. “No!”

Sally laughed. “Oh thank God. I was worried for a second.”

“It’s just his brother,” Greg said.

Sally just laughed harder for a few moments. Then she looked at him. “Oh God, you weren’t kidding.”

Greg pressed his lips together and shook his head. “Nope. Not kidding.”

Sally nodded, taking it in. Greg bit his lip. It felt good to say it. To get it out, like it was no longer some dirty secret only he, Mycroft and Sherlock knew anything about. He might regret mentioning it to Sally once the alcohol was out of his system though…

“Is he nice?” she finally asked.

Greg nodded. “To me anyway.”

“But he won’t have a relationship with you?”

“Not yet. But I’m not ruling it out.”

Sally smiled. “Well. I’m pretty shocked. And I don’t shock easily.”

“Yeah it… it just sort of happened.”

She nudged him with her shoulder. “I know how that happens, believe me. As long as he treats you well then I’m good with it.”

Greg nodded. “He does, you know? At least we’ve not rushed this.”

Sally smiled at him. “Come on. I challenge you to a game of whatever Sam and Ed have got going on over there.”

Greg grinned and stood up, holding his arm out to her to help her up. They spent the next half an hour playing the ridiculous drinking game.

Eventually the party fizzled out. It was late and Sally gave Greg a tight hug before they left. Greg leaned against the wall as he closed the door. He smiled to himself as he pulled away from the wall and started collecting up some of the empty bottles and putting them in the kitchen. He switched CDs, turning Jeff Buckley’s Grace album on. He started unbuttoning his shirt as he wandered into his bedroom and he heard the knock on the door. He assumed someone must have forgotten something.

He wasn’t expecting Mycroft when he finally got it open. He grinned slowly. “Hello there, stranger.”

Mycroft smiled. “I didn’t think you would still be awake.” Greg stepped aside to let him in. Mycroft slipped his coat off, adding it to the coats other people had forgotten to take home.

“I was just going to bed. What you doing here?”

“I wanted to say happy birthday.” Mycroft held out long thin gift wrapped in black shiny paper. Greg carefully took it from him and set it on his lap when he sat down on the sofa.

“You didn’t need to do this,” he murmured as he pulled back the paper. It was a large picture in a frame. He stared at it. It was the Arsenal cup winning team from the 1990-91 season. Signed. “Is this…”

“It’s real,” Mycroft said, taking a seat beside him.

Greg stared at the names. David Seaman and Nigel Winterburn and Lee Dixon and Tony Adams. “Thank you,” he whispered. “This is amazing. Too much. But amazing.” He turned to look at Mycroft. He was smiling, though he looked quite tired.

Greg kissed him lightly.

“Happy birthday,” Mycroft whispered. Greg set the picture down carefully on the table. He looked at Mycroft just as So Real switched to Hallelujah in the CD player. He hesitated for a second before standing up and holding his hand out. Mycroft looked at his hand and up at his face.

“C’mon,” Greg said. Mycroft frowned and took his hand.

Greg led him to the centre of his living room and wrapped his arms around his neck. Mycroft chuckled. “Greg, what are you doing?”

“It’s my birthday,” Greg grinned. “And this is Jeff Buckley playing. This is my favourite song. And you’re dancing with me.” Mycroft’s arms wound around his waist.

Greg smiled and kissed him briefly before dropping his head onto Mycroft’s shoulder. He felt Mycroft’s laugh, but he held him close, swaying with him. Greg sighed as he kissed Mycroft’s neck, pressing their bodies together. Mycroft’s cheek pressed against his hair, one hand gently stroking his back.

They moved so slowly, Greg allowing the words to wash over him as he inhaled Mycroft’s aftershave, felt his suit jacket under his fingers. Mycroft sighed ever so quietly, just moving with him. Greg’s head was so still. Just drifting, relaxed and certain. _And I’ve seen your flag on the marble arch and love is not a victory march._

“I didn’t think you were going to come,” Greg said softly.

“I was never going to miss it,” Mycroft replied quietly.

“I’m not 39 anymore,” Greg said.

“Yes, that’s correct.”

“Probably,” Greg said.

“You don’t know your real birthday,” Mycroft murmured, a statement, not a question.

“It’s the best guess,” Greg said, closing his eyes. He felt Mycroft kiss his hair. _And every breath we drew was hallelujah._

They stood still as the music turned to gentle string sounds, as if the song were drawing to a close, one note playing after the other. Just wrapped in each other’s arms.

The singing resumed. And Mycroft’s arms wrapped tighter around him, swaying slowly with him. _But all I’ve ever learned from love was how to shoot somebody who outdrew you._ Mycroft pulled back, resting one hand on Greg’s hip. Greg looked at him as Mycroft lifted his hand, pressing his index finger against Greg’s jaw as he traced his top lip with his thumb. Greg closed his eyes and Mycroft kissed just above his lip, his mouth lingering there. Greg’s breath caught in his throat. He looked at the other man. Mycroft appeared so impossibly torn.

“What’s up?” Greg asked. Mycroft shook his head. Greg kissed him tenderly. “It’s alright,” he said. “Whatever it is, it’s-”

“-Inconvenient.”

Greg frowned. “What is?” Mycroft stared past him. “Oh. You and me. Feelings. Unnecessary and pointless, right?” Greg sighed and pulled Mycroft close to him. “Just shut it off, Mycroft. Whatever bit of your ridiculous brain is freaking out right now, just shut it down.”

“I can’t.”

“Yes you can. Your head isn’t like other people’s. You don’t want to think it then just shut it off. Not your feelings. Just switch off the bit which says feelings are bad for you.”

Mycroft nuzzled his neck. “It is never so simple.”

“I’m making it simple.” Greg rubbed the back of Mycroft’s neck. “What the hell happened to make you think you weren’t allowed to be happy?”

Mycroft didn’t answer. Greg didn’t expect him too.

“Come to bed with me,” Greg said, pulling back to look at him.

“I can’t-”

“Can’t stay, I know. That’s fine.” Greg took his hand. “But you like getting me naked, right?”

Mycroft nodded. “Yes.”

“Come to bed with me. For an hour. Or less, depending on whether I’m able to get it up with the amount of alcohol I’ve had.”

Mycroft chuckled.

Greg squeezed his hand. “Come on.”

Mycroft nodded and let Greg lead him to his bedroom. Mycroft sat down on the edge of the bed, wringing his hands. Greg knelt down in front of him and untied his shoes. Mycroft brushed his fingers through Greg’s hair. Greg glanced up at him and stroked his thighs before resting his head against his leg. Mycroft’s fingers continued to stroke through his hair.

“Tired,” Greg muttered, hating himself a bit for feeling it.

“Come up here,” Mycroft said, holding a hand out. Greg took it, collapsing down onto the bed and curling up. Mycroft laughed and began undoing his shirt.

Greg groaned. “Why was I fine five minutes ago and now…”

“It was the sambuca.”

Greg struggled out of his shirt and groaned, closing his eyes as Mycroft began to unfasten his trousers. He lifted his hips to help him take them down. Mycroft pulled the covers back for him and Greg struggled under them.

Greg reached up to stroke his arm. “You’re pretty gorgeous.”

Mycroft sat down beside him and stroked his forehead. “Go to sleep, Greg.”

“But y’gonna go.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I like you,” Greg mumbled.

“I know.”

“I broke your rules. Your feeling rules.”

“As did I,” Mycroft said softly.

Mycroft stood up and bent down to kiss his forehead. He turned the light off. “Go to sleep.”

“Mycroft?”

“Mm?”

“I really like you.”

“It’s mutual,” Mycroft whispered as he stepped out of the room. He returned a few moments later with a glass of water which he placed beside the bed. He lightly kissed Greg’s lips. “I will call you. Goodnight.”

Greg smiled a bit, closing his eyes. He faintly heard Mycroft retrieving a jacket from the coat pile and fell fast asleep before he even heard the door close.

 

* * *

 

Ow. Ow. Ugh. The pain. And the sick feeling. Why? Why why why?

Greg rolled over and felt the world spin with him. No more moving. Moving bad. He reached out and his hands grasped the glass. He took a sip and pulled a face. Ugh. Disgusting water. Disgusting breath.

Good job Mycroft couldn’t see him like it.

Oh, Mycroft stopped by last night, didn’t he? And they danced. To Jeff Buckley. To a really romantic Jeff Buckley song. Ah holy fuck, he told Sally. Shit.

Ow. Don’t think about it. Too much pain, too much gross.

He was going to get Sam Brockhurt demoted for causing dangerous liver upset, intense sickness and achy head.

Bloody Sam Brockhurst. Oh, why did the world hate him so? And why did it just keep spinning, on and on and on and on.

Ow. Just ow. So much ow.

 

* * *

 

 

He woke to the sound of his phone ringing. He pressed answer without looking at the screen. “What?” he asked irritably.

“I’m sorry, I woke you.”

Greg half smiled. “Sorry.”

“How are you feeling?” Mycroft asked.

“Like I’m trapped under a bulldozer.”

“Sambuca will do that to you.”

“Never again,” Greg muttered.

“Would you like to come to mine for dinner later?”

Greg almost forgot his headache. “Yeah. Yeah, definitely.”

“About 8?”

“8 is good,” Greg said. “What time is it now?”

“Almost 2pm.”

“Ah, shit. I’ve been sleeping all day.”

“If you couldn’t sleep all day after your 40th birthday then when could you?”

“Yeah, true. You need to me to bring anything?”

“Just your good self. I have painkillers if you still require them.”

“I’m sure I’ll feel a bit more alive after a shower. Thanks for coming last night.”

“I’m just sorry I couldn’t be there sooner.”

Greg smiled, and tried to imagine Mycroft being there for the plastic cups game. “Me too, but you came, so. Good birthday all in all.”

“I’m glad. I’ll see you at 8.”

“Later.”

Mycroft hung up and Greg rubbed his face, smiling.

 

* * *

 

 

Greg ran out to his car with his coat held over his head, trying to shield himself from the rain. Thunder rumbled as he got into it.

He turned the radio up loud as he drove through the hurtling rain to Crusader House. The doorman had the doors open before Greg had even arrived at them and he shouted a thank you as he ran across the road and into the building. He wiped the water off his face and nodded appreciatively at the man.

He jogged up to Mycroft’s flat and the butler let him in with a curt nod. Well, that was an improvement on his usual attitude.

Mycroft was stood by the drinks table, pouring a whiskey when he walked in. He smiled. “Alright?” Greg grinned, taking in his more casual appearance, a shirt rolled to his elbows, the top button undone. The fire was roaring and warm.

Mycroft set down the decanter and walked right up to him. Without a word, he touched Greg’s cheek and kissed him. Greg made a sound of surprise against his lips before drawing Mycroft closer, pulling him tighter against him, pushing his tongue into the other man’s mouth. They kissed in desperation as Mycroft pushed him up into the bookcase, Greg wrapping one leg around Mycroft’s to keep him there.

Greg groaned into his mouth, his fingers fumbling with Mycroft’s shirt buttons, trying desperately to get them undone. Mycroft’s lips trailed kisses down his neck, occasionally biting, once harder than Greg was expecting, and the surprise of it made Greg gasp and then groan as he wrapped one hand tightly around Mycroft’s neck to make him kiss him again.

Mycroft pushed him harder into the bookcase, their hips pressing together, and Greg heard some books clatter to the floor. Greg managed to get three of Mycroft’s buttons unfastened, and Mycroft tugged at his t-shirt, stepping back for a second to allow Greg to pull it off.

They stared at each other for a moment, breathing hard, before their mouths connected again, devouring each other, biting, licking in frenzied kisses, as though they’d been deprived of them for years.

They stumbled back, Mycroft’s fingers flicking Greg’s left nipple as they walked across the living room floor. Greg turned his attention to Mycroft’s neck, flicking his tongue against his pulse point as Mycroft’s fingers ably undid his jeans. Mycroft’s fingers curled in Greg’s hair, tugging his head up for another kiss as Greg pushed him into a wall beside the spare bedroom door, hastily unfastening the last of his shirt buttons. He pushed the shirt apart, bending his knees as he trailed kisses through his chest hair and then back up, closing his mouth around Mycroft’s nipple and flicking his tongue against it.

Mycroft’s nails scratched his back as he leaned to the side, sticking his arm out to open the door to the spare bedroom.

Greg pushed Mycroft’s shirt off, letting it fall onto the floor as he grabbed Mycroft’s hand and tugged him into the bedroom. Greg stumbled onto the bed, tugging his jeans down as Mycroft stared at him from the doorway, his chest rising and falling with every deep breath.

Greg stopped to gaze at him. He grinned and shook his head. “You are just. I can’t even describe it. You’re just too good to be real.”

Mycroft dipped his head in mild embarrassment and walked over to Greg, standing between his legs as Greg unfastened his belt. Greg leaned forward and kissed just above Mycroft’s belly button, looking up at his face through his lashes.

Mycroft’s eyes were glazed, and he shuddered as Greg eased down the zip of his trousers, pushing them down and letting them fall to the floor. Mycroft stepped out of them before taking hold of Greg’s shoulders and pushing him down onto the bed.

Greg laughed and took hold of Mycroft’s arms, pulling him down on top of him. Mycroft laughed with him, kissing him messily. Mycroft pressed their hips together and Greg groaned at the pressure against his cock. The kiss deepened as their laughter died down, Greg’s hands grabbing Mycroft’s arse under his boxers - he had the best arse on the planet, had anyone ever told him that? - and moving their hips together.

“I want you,” Mycroft murmured between kisses, reaching a hand between their bodies to squeeze Greg’s cock through his underwear.

Greg’s body shook, and he nipped Mycroft’s bottom lip. “Yeah, take it,” he muttered. “Anything, have it.”

Mycroft’s breath shook as he looked down at him. “Lie down on your front,” he commanded, his voice husky. “And take the last of your clothes off.”

Greg stared at him as he breathed out “oh God,” and wriggled out from under Mycroft’s body. He looked at him over his shoulder as he teased his boxers down over his arse, sliding them down his legs and letting them drop onto the floor. He lay down flat on his stomach in the centre of the bed, letting out a relieved sigh as his cock came into contact with the sheets.

Mycroft straddled his hips, kissing lightly over his neck. “You’re not to touch yourself,” he murmured. “You’re not to move a muscle without my say so.”

Greg trembled. “Yeah,” he managed, tangling his fingers in the sheets. “Yeah, I… Oh God, Mycroft.”

Mycroft’s lips began to tease their way down his spine and Greg closed his eyes, honing his senses so all he could feel was his mouth and his hot breath and oh, his tongue. Mycroft’s lips pressed above cleft of his arse. “Move your legs apart, Greg.”

Greg complied without a word, burying his head in the pillow. Mycroft’s hands stroked and squeezed his arse and Greg bit his lip, unable to make a sound as he waited. And waited. Knowing what was likely to happen next, but unable to get any purchase as Mycroft’s lips just traced haphazard patterns over his skin and his hands dipped to the backs of his thighs.

Greg shook as Mycroft’s thumbs rubbed the inside of them. He felt Mycroft hesitate before repeating the action. “Oh, Christ, yes, there,” Greg moaned, desperate to move his hips against the sheets, get some sort of purchase on his cock. But he wouldn’t, because Mycroft had told him not to. Ordered him not to. God, if this was how Mycroft did his job, with so much precision and commanding presence, he’d probably have the power to rip entire countries in two.

He was tearing Greg’s resolve to stay still in two. His fingers tracing patterns and nails scratching against the inside of his thighs. It was fucking perfect. That Mycroft had realised how much Greg loved that part of his body being touched was no surprise to him at all. Mycroft kissed the backs of his knees. He licked the thin skin there. He kissed down the back of Greg’s calf. And he rubbed the arch of Greg’s feet before kissing back up the other leg.

His hands took hold of Greg’s arse, gently spreading the cheeks apart. Greg swallowed. Still just waiting. And then Mycroft’s tongue swept down between his cheeks and Greg couldn’t make heads or tails the garbled nonsense which came out of his mouth.

Mycroft’s tongue was unrelenting as it swept and flicked against the tight muscle. Greg was trembling against the covers, his fingers tightening and then letting go of the fabric. One of Mycroft’s thumbs was still rubbing the inside of his thigh. “Mycroft,” Greg breathed out, pinching his eyes closed. “Mycroft. Mycroft. Fuck. Please. Please, please. Just, oh. Oh, I can’t, I can’t, please.”

He felt Mycroft move, and opened his eyes as the drawer slid open. He watched as Mycroft retrieved the lubricant and a condom and Greg smiled, trying to get his breath back. “Yeah, that’s… perfect, yeah.”

“Onto your hands and knees, Greg,” Mycroft murmured, stroking one hand down his back.

Greg did as instructed, his knees shaking. “You always know,” he marvelled. “You just… you just get it, you just…”

Mycroft kissed the small of his back. “Shh, it’s okay,” he whispered. Greg heard the sound of a lid being taken off, a few moments passed, and Mycroft’s finger pressed against him.

With Greg already so relaxed, his finger slid in easily. Mycroft’s voice shook as he murmured “you’re so perfect.”

Greg swallowed, pushing back against his finger. “More, please.”

“Patience, Greg,” Mycroft said as he curled his finger. Greg cried out, tugging at the covers.

“I can’t. Please.”

“Patience.”

Mycroft began to move his finger, so tortuously slowly and almost completely out of him before easing it back in.

“I don’t know how you’re so bloody patient,” Greg managed. “You’re just… please, Mycroft, please.”

Greg was completely undone.

He had never been so undone in his entire life.

Mycroft eased another finger into him, spreading them, pressing one against his prostate. Greg’s knees almost buckled at the sensation, but Mycroft’s arm wrapped around his chest and kept him up.

“I need you so much,” Greg said. “Mycroft.”

Mycroft kissed his back and just kept fucking him slowly with his fingers.

Greg cried out, just clinging to the sheets. Mycroft withdrew his fingers and what should have been relief was just desperate desire to have them back. He heard the ripping of the condom foil. He closed his eyes.

He let go of a tension he didn’t know he was holding when Mycroft’s hand rested on his hip, before his cock pressed against him.

“Please,” Greg choked out. Mycroft’s cock eased into him so slowly. Greg couldn’t contemplate how he had this much self-control. Mycroft stilled when he was buried inside him.

“You are beautiful,” Mycroft whispered, and then he pulled nearly completely out before he drove his cock back inside Greg.

Greg cried out, his head falling to rest on his arm as Mycroft thrust unrelentingly into him before suddenly stilling, then torturing him with impossibly slow and small strokes.

Greg was so lost, he couldn’t catch where his groans began or ended, he just listened out for Mycroft’s breaths and gasps.

Mycroft began to thrust hard into him again, before stopping. And then withdrawing from him completely. “On your back,” he said.

Greg collapsed onto his arms before he turned over and looked up at Mycroft. There was a faint trace of sweat on his forehead, a bit of hair clinging to his skin. Greg reached for him and pulled him into a kiss as he wrapped his legs around his waist.

Mycroft pressed back inside him as they kissed. Mycroft’s movements were deep and graceful, Greg arching up with every thrust as they moved together. Rocking and moving, clinging for dear life.

Mycroft touched Greg’s cock and Greg came with a deep groan into the other man’s mouth, letting go, just letting go, and it was perfect, like the beautiful white lights of utter bliss. Mycroft came just one thrust later, shuddering against Greg’s body as he gasped.

Greg kissed his lips. He brushed his mouth against his jaw. Filtrum. Lips. Chin. Lips. He kissed all the places he could reach and fought to kiss those he couldn’t.

Unsteady now on his arms, Mycroft collapsed onto him and Greg held him against his body.

His heart was pounding. He closed his eyes and kissed Mycroft’s hair. He hadn’t been making it up when he said they had the best sex he’d ever had.

He nearly lost track of how long they lay like that, legs entwined, Mycroft wrapped around his body. Greg opened his eyes to gaze at him. So peaceful like this now. His lips were parted a fraction, his breath warm on Greg’s skin.

Greg made a quiet sound. Mycroft’s mouth twitched into a smile. “Mm,” was the only sound he made in response.

Greg grinned and hugged him tighter to his chest. “Mm. Yeah.”

“Quite.”

“Amazing.”

“Mm.”

Greg kissed his hair. “Mycroft. You are. I can’t even.” Mycroft chuckled and rubbed his cheek against Greg’s chest.

“I need to move.”

“No,” Greg grinned. “No moving.”

Mycroft laughed. “I really need to move.”

“Kiss me first.” Mycroft leaned up on his arms to press their lips together.

“Wonderful,” Mycroft whispered against his lips before he rolled away, handing Greg a packet of tissues and taking the dressing gown off the back of the door. He smiled at Greg before leaving the room.

Greg stared up at the ceiling as he let out a long breath. He was pulling at thoughts in his head, but all of his words ended without a thread. Completely void of any thought at all, Greg rolled over and cleaned himself up.

He pulled on his clothes. His body felt weightless as he wandered into the living room and into the bathroom. After washing his hands he stared at himself in the mirror. He hardly recognised the man staring back at him. There was no tension there.

He walked out and found Mycroft dressed in the kitchen, putting a lasagne into the oven. “Did you make that earlier?” Greg asked, watching.

“I did. I was expecting we would be eating earlier but…”

“Well you kind of jumped me,” Greg said, laughing.

“I did not jump you.” Mycroft crossed his arms. “I merely-”

“-Got carried away?”

“I find you quite irresistible at times.” He drew Greg into a tender kiss before stepping away. A loud bang came from outside the window.

“Storm’s pretty bad,” Greg said, watching as Mycroft stepped away from him and out of the kitchen to look out through the doors leading to the balcony. Greg followed, stepping behind him as they watched a fork of lightening behind the rows of houses. Greg wrapped his arms around Mycroft from behind, pressing his chin to his shoulder.

They listened to the rain together as Mycroft’s fingers linked with his.

Eventually Mycroft turned in Greg’s arms. “Shall we move the sofa closer to the fire and put a film on?”

Greg smiled and kissed him. “You’re a genius. Anyone ever tell you that?”

Mycroft chuckled. “Occasionally.” Mycroft moved away to take hold of one side of the table. Greg helped him move it to the side of the room before they turned their attention to the sofa, dragging it forward and closer to the fire. “Can you stomach a glass of wine or would you prefer something else?”

“No, I’ll have some water, but thanks,” Greg replied.

“I’ll get that and check on dinner. Can you find a film?”

“Any preference?”

“I will leave it in your very capable hands.”

Greg grinned and went into Mycroft’s office, kneeling down to take the box out of the cabinet. “Shawshank or the Green Mile?” he called out, looking through the cases. “Or Hitchcock’s Spellbound.”

“I don’t mind, I’ve not seen any of them.”

“You’ve never seen Shawshank? Really?” Greg carried the DVD through to the living room and took the picture down from the wall to reveal the television. He put the film in before finding Mycroft in the kitchen. “Can I help with anything?”

“There’s nothing to help with.” Mycroft turned and handed Greg their drinks. “Dinner will be another 20 minutes.”

Greg grinned and walked back into the living room, stretching along the sofa. Mycroft collected a blanket from the bathroom and nestled between Greg’s legs, resting his back against Greg’s chest. Greg grinned and nuzzled his neck. “Comfortable?”

“Nearly,” Mycroft said, drawing the blanket over them both. “You may turn the film on now.”

Greg laughed and reached for the remote. “May I now?”

Mycroft chuckled. “Yes, I give my permission.” Mycroft turned and looked at him, smiling warmly. Greg laughed and kissed him and pressed play before wrapping his arms over him and tangling their legs together. They watched the first 15 minutes of the film before Mycroft got up to dish up their dinner. Greg joined him in the kitchen and put some salad on the plates.

He carried the cutlery through while Mycroft carried the plates and they enjoyed their food in front of the film. “That was great,” Greg said as he took the dishes back to the kitchen and turned the main light off. They returned to their original position on the sofa, occasionally turning and exchanging kisses and adjusting the way they were sitting. The film was 142 minutes of warmth. The only light came from the pictures on the television and the fire.

The credits began to roll and Mycroft turned in Greg’s arms, touching their foreheads together. Greg smiled and kissed him. “How was it?”

“Excellent.”

Greg smiled. “Yeah, it’s a great film.” They shared a few gentle kisses. Mycroft turned more completely in his arms and Greg sighed as he pulled him closer, brushing his fingers through his hair. They smiled against each other’s lips. “Mycroft,” Greg whispered, kissing his jaw.

“Mm?”

“I don’t know. I just wanted to say cheers.”

“What for?”

“Well, y’know-” Greg groaned as his phone started to ring. “Sorry.” He picked it up off the floor and looked at the screen. Sally. “Lestrade.”

“Hi, boss. Bad news.”

“Oh, shit, what?”

“There’s been a triple shooting. Gang-related. There’s a lot of trouble brewing, they need all hands on deck.”

“Really? Really? Now?”

“I’m sorry,” Sally said.

Greg sighed. “No, it’s fine. Right. I’ll be at the Yard in 20 minutes, alright?”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine.” Greg hung up.

“Trouble?” Mycroft asked, stroking his cheek.

“Apparently. I’m sorry, I’m going to have to go.”

Mycroft nodded and sat up. “I understand.”

Greg moved with him, kissing his shoulder. “I really don’t want to, but they need man-power right now, and God knows what else.”

Mycroft turned his face and kissed him. “No one understands work pressures better than I do. It’s quite alright.”

Greg looked surprised. He remembered something Caroline said. That he needed someone who understood work was important. Well, he’d found them. He’d found him.

Greg stood up retrieved his coat. Mycroft stood and kissed him long and hard. “Greg?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m going to be away all of December for work. I leave tomorrow.”

Greg felt his heart sink but he tried not to show it. “Oh, right, sure. Okay.”

“Look after Sherlock?”

Greg hugged him. “I promise.” The hug lingered for a minute before Greg pulled back and gave Mycroft one last quick kiss. “Message me, whenever you get five minutes.”

“I will.”

Greg took a deep breath and looked at him. He wanted to tell him he would miss him. But he couldn’t bear to scare him away. Instead he forced a smile. “Right. Look after yourself.”

“And you, Greg.”

Greg nodded and opened the door. “See you in January, yeah?”

“I promise.”

Greg closed the door and jogged down the steps. From overhead, the lightening flashed. 


	31. See Us Both In Slow Motion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your kind comments and for being so patient.  
> This lengthy chapter is dedicated to Mice, Velma, Jalizar (love the Mycroft icon!), day_dream_girl, JustLookFrightenedAndScuttle, Novels, WhiskeySally, MoonRiver, jill, KingTaran, Tappy33, polux and MisplacedLonelyHeartsAd - you are all wonderful.
> 
> This chapter comes with a little warning. There are some bits mentioned in dialogue which is potentially triggering because of references to domestic abuse. Where it begins you will find: * * * * * * in bold, and the same when it pretty much ends. All you need to know is it's a case, and it bothers Greg. I don't think you lose too much by not reading it, but reading it does offer more insight into the case. I hope that makes sense... 
> 
> Anyway, this chapter is Huge. Enjoy!

_December, 2006_

The next few days were tense and difficult. Most of the Yard staff were working long hours and unusual shift patterns, trying to ease the tensions which had erupted in light of the shootings.

With two dead and one still in intensive care, it was a volatile situation but one they’d dealt with before. It was about containment of a problem, while also trying to get to grips with what had happened.

Gang crime was difficult. No one wanted to be accused of being a grass, so everyone protested they did not know anything about it. CCTV images were blurry. And anyway, most of them were wearing hoods and hats.

On the 7th December, Greg received the first contact from Mycroft in the form of an email.

 

Sender: Holmes, Mycroft   
Subject: Tedious

Dear Greg,  
I hope this message finds you well. I have been in meetings all week. Many of them have been rather lengthy, and it has been difficult to fit meals in, let alone sleep. These people all appear to suffer from constant insomnia. Meetings spontaneously start at 4am in an assortment of hotel rooms and bars. It is quite bizarre.  
I hope everything is well in London, and you are busy but not overly so. I trust Sherlock is behaving himself?  
I don’t know if it’s acceptable to tell you I’m counting down the days until January. Not only because it means this constant tedium draws to a close and I’m finally able to get some sleep, but because I’m looking forward to seeing you again.  
Anthea took a surreptitious photograph of someone fast asleep in a meeting. I thought it was amusing and attached it to this email.  
Kindest regards,  
Mycroft Holmes.

 

Greg smiled and hit reply straight away.

 

To: Holmes, Mycroft  
Subject: Re: Tedious

Hi,  
It’s good to hear from you. Make sure you get some time to eat and sleep!  
Work’s fine, thanks for asking. Busy, yeah, but most of the murderers seem to have got into the festive spirit, so mostly they’re all pretty obvious crimes of passion and family fights gone wrong.  
Lots of shoplifting though.  
Sherlock’s fine - bit bored. I’m keeping a close eye on him. No more ‘experiments’ recently. But I’ll keep him busy.  
It’s more than acceptable to tell me that. I’m looking forward to seeing you too.  
Great pic! Tell Anthea to get one of you and send it to me! I’d like that more than pics of random sleeping men! Talk when you can.  
Cheers.  
Greg.

 

Later that morning, some of Greg’s team were called to the Kensal Rise area, where a freak tornado had wreaked havoc, leaving six people injured and destroying 150 houses.

It was eight days later when Mycroft finally messaged him back. At first, when Greg opened it and didn’t read the words, he thought the message wasn’t long enough. All those days had passed, and Mycroft had managed to type only six lines. Then he read it.

 

Sender: Holmes, Mycroft  
Subject: Re: Tedious

Dear Greg,  
I am exhausted. I’m eating. Don’t worry.  
Sherlock has ignored both messages I sent him. Check on him please?  
I continue to miss you.  
Kindest regards,  
Mycroft Holmes.

 

‘I continue to miss you’. Missing. He missed him. Greg missed him too. More than he allowed himself to think.

 

To: Holmes, Mycroft  
Subject: Re: Tedious

Hi Mycroft,  
Get some sleep you silly sod.  
Sherlock’s being annoying, but he’s fine. He interviewed a member of the public yesterday. I didn’t give him permission, he just started doing it. It was awful. Won’t happen again, believe me. He made a grown man cry. I wanted to smack him one. (I didn’t actually do it, but Sally was even closer than I was, believe me!)  
He solved it though. Abernetty case is all wrapped up now. He put it on his blog. Did you see it? He cut me out of it completely even though I remembered the Kent bit and he didn’t! The git. Typical Sherlock.  
I miss you too. Don’t be a stranger when you get back. Talk soon.  
Cheers.  
Greg. 

 

The days passed with no big surprises, and no drama. And no further contact from Mycroft. No further contact from the other Holmes either, which was a worrying situation in itself.

Greg tried Sherlock’s phone again. Four days running and no response. Not a text, not an email. It wasn’t really unusual. But still, Greg felt uneasy.

Eventually he decided to go to Sherlock’s flat. It had been a while since he’d been there.

He didn't particularly trust him, that much was true. And apparently Mycroft didn't either since he'd asked him to check on him. Not that texting Mycroft was high on Sherlock's priority list, Greg imagined. He rather expected Sherlock delighted in not messaging him just to make him stew. Greg expected Sherlock had no idea how much his brother cared about him.

Greg knocked on Sherlock's door but didn't get a response. He was about to walk away, but it had been a while since he'd done an unannounced drug raid on Sherlock's flat and he would hate the man to think he was slacking.

He took his keys out of his pocket and opened the door to Sherlock's flat. The man was lying on his back on the floor, his legs bent at the knees. He was only wearing a black dressing gown and pyjama trousers. Sherlock didn't even open his eyes. "Go away," he said.

Greg saw the paper on the floor beside him. The table with a packet of powder. So when it wasn't heroin, it was experiments, and when it wasn't heroin or experiments, it was cocaine.

And Greg couldn’t even be angry. Disappointed, yes. Concerned, even more so. But he couldn’t do angry.

He sat down on the floor beside him. "How long's this binge been going?" he asked.

"Lost track of time," Sherlock replied. "I've never done cocaine before and I don't like it, it's sending my brain into overdrive. Everything hurts."

Greg was surprised. "You've never done cocaine?"

"I found heroin. How could anything else ever compare?" Sherlock smacked his palm against his head. "Get out of there!" he all but screamed, rolling onto his front. His body started shaking. "Lestrade! Go!"

"No chance. I'm not leaving you like this."

"Go."

"No."

"Wriggling colours and sounds, so many sounds. Your breathing is painful, stop it."

Greg raised his eyebrows. "My breathing is painful?"

"Everything hurts!"

Greg stood and walked into Sherlock's bedroom. He picked a blanket up from the bed. He knelt down beside Sherlock and wrapped his arm around his shoulders. Sherlock didn't complain, but he didn't help as Greg tried to sit him up. He draped the blanket over Sherlock’s shoulders. “Come on. Come to my place.”

Sherlock got up without a complaint, his head drooped forward as he murmured “please don’t tell Mycroft.”

Greg glanced at him. “You’re in luck. Your brother’s out of the country.”

“Uch. The fact you know that. I find your relationship incredibly disturbing.”

“Yeah, I got that part,” Greg said, and he helped Sherlock down the stairs. They got outside and Greg held the passenger door of his car open for him. Sherlock opened the back door instead and sprawled out along those seats. Greg shut the door for him and got into the driver’s seat.

Greg quickly turned the radio off and drove them to his flat. He guided Sherlock, who was shaky on his feet trying to find purchase against walls which were further away than he expected them to be, all the way up the stairs.

Greg had never seen someone on cocaine act quite like this before. The idea that Sherlock was an exceptional case in these circumstances did not surprise him in the slightest. But he wished he was better. He wished he wasn't killing his mind.

Sherlock sprawled out on the sofa and Greg brought him another blanket before taking a seat on the opposite couch. They looked at each other for a moment before Sherlock closed his eyes.

“Still high?” Greg asked.

“Coming down.”

Greg pressed his lips together and nodded. They stayed in silence for a while, Greg sat staring at the wall, contemplating a case he was working on.

“Have you got a cigarette?” Sherlock asked.

“Yeah,” Greg said, supposing if Sherlock was going to flick from one vice to another, smoking was the lesser of the evils. He took a packet out of his jacket and threw it over, closely followed by the lighter.

Sherlock lit up and tossed them back. Greg lit his own cigarette and stretched out along the sofa.

“I’m building a mind palace.”

Greg frowned and rolled onto his side, staring at Sherlock from across the room. “You’re doing what?”

“Building a mind palace,” Sherlock replied irritably.

“Okay,” Greg muttered. “Are you going to explain that?”

“I keep losing knowledge. I can feel it leaking out, it’s annoying.”

“Just a thought, but it could be the cocaine.”

“No. I just need to find a more logical, structured way of retaining it. The Greek poet Simonides made a lucky escape from a collapsing banquet hall. He realised how, by visualising the room where it happened, he could perfectly recall the names of the squashed people.” Greg almost laughed. “He later associated things he wanted to remember with buildings he knew well.”

Greg nodded. “So. What’s your head like now?”

Sherlock rubbed his eyes. “Can you turn down the lights?”

Greg nodded and turned a single lamp on before getting up and turning the main one off. Sherlock stumped out his cigarette into a mug.

“It’s a library with hundreds of textbooks with hundreds and thousands of words. But it’s too much. I need a better way to access it.”

“So, are you building an actual palace?”

“No. I have bricks but I can’t decide what building to create.”

“Your flat?”

“Too small. It needs to be somewhere clear, somewhere I can walk through and find the answers.”

“I dunno, Sherlock, this is completely beyond me and you know it.”

“It’s too much, Lestrade. There’s too many words and thoughts and meanings and links, it’s buzzing, it’s endless, all those sentences and numbers and science and history and this and that and hydrogen, lithium, beryllium, Si Monumentum Requiris, Circumspice-”

“-Sherlock-”

“I can’t do it!” He threw his hands up in the air. “I need heroin.”

“No.”

“Give it to me.”

“No way.”

Sherlock’s hands clenched in the blanket as he pulled it up over his face. “It is just endless, endless noise!”

Greg’s heart broke for him then. He didn’t have anything he could do, nothing he could say because he didn’t understand. How could he possibly?

“I am high, Lestrade, I am high and it still doesn’t stop. It never stops. How does he do it?”

“Who?”

“Mycroft. How is he so… so… quiet. People think I’m crazy and I’m not, I’m not, they’re just unobservant and they’re the ones who don’t understand. What is it like? To be still? How do you just… How does he do it?”

“I don’t know,” Greg said quietly. “I don’t know what he does.”

“He does something. He has to. I can’t shut it off. I tried deleting things, I thought I was getting the hang of it but it’s there, it’s still all trapped in my head.” Sherlock hit his palm against the side of his head. “I want to erase something! Anything will do, just to get rid of all the words and the noise. Just the buzzing. The constant, endless buzzing.”

Greg opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out.

“Why can’t it just be quiet?” Sherlock asked mournfully. “The heroin used to make it so silent.”

Greg sat back in his chair and rubbed his face.

“I thought the cocaine would help. Bright colours and sounds, but it’s just noise and aggravating. Deafening. My brain is deafening me and only the heroin makes it stop.”

"You can't get back on that stuff, Sherlock."

"Don't you think I know that?" Sherlock snapped. Well, no, actually, Greg thought. Actually, I didn't think you knew that. I was beginning to think you had a bit of a death wish to be honest. But he didn't say it aloud. "I need it, Lestrade. Nothing is quiet without it."

Greg sighed. He'd seen addicts so many times. Heroin often seemed to be the worst. The track marks, the illnesses they gave themselves because of unclean needles. It had become trendy. Heroin. The new fashion for those rich and stupid and lonely. Because ultimately, that's what linked them. The loneliness, the despair, the thought it could never get better. And the heroin made it quiet. It turned the lights down and made it bearable.

And Sherlock's mind - the 'deafening' mind in Mycroft's words - must have been chaotic and painful at times. Greg couldn't even hope to imagine it. "What do you need?" he asked. "Except heroin."

"A mind palace."

"How can I help?"

"You can't. No one can."

Greg nodded and rubbed his face. That was the answer he expected all along. But it still it cut a bit. He was used to doing something. To being useful.

Sherlock's hand suddenly reached out into the air and his hand closed, as though he was grasping for something. "The person who knocked you into the Thames knew where you would be and when. You're being followed."

Greg stared at him. "Where the hell did that just come from?"

"Words and patterns are currently streaming through my head. They're uncoordinated and constant. As I said. Loud. I imagine you have a bug device in your jacket. Perhaps all of them. You have four. You should check them all." Sherlock held his arm out to him.

"What?"

Sherlock made a beckoning gesture with his hand. "Give."

Greg shook his head. Sherlock made the gesture again. Greg growled deep in his throat and took his jacket off, throwing it over. He laughed when it landed on Sherlock's face. He stopped laughing when the younger man started to rip the lining.

"Oi! I happen to like that jacket."

Sherlock continued to tear with a strength Greg hadn't realised he possessed. Or perhaps the stitching was just really weak. Cheap jacket. But still. Comfy jacket. Sherlock threw it on the floor. "Coat! Coat! You always wear your coat."

"No, no, you are not tearing up more of my clothes."

"You're being bugged, Lestrade. And when have I ever been wrong?"

Greg pressed his lips together. He was torn between curiosity mixed with a desire to prove Sherlock wrong and the need to keep his coat in one piece. He hardly realised he had got up to pick his coat up until he was already on the other side of the room. He handed it to Sherlock.

Sherlock began to pull at the lining again, then tore into the inside pocket. He dropped the device down on the table, a self-satisfied smile on his face. Greg stared at it.

"No, nothing here," Sherlock said looking pointedly at him, and Greg frowned at him before replying.

"Yeah, told you so," Greg said, going along with it. "Sometimes even you get it wrong."

They both continued to stare at the device on the table. Greg shrugged at him, mouthing 'now what?'

Sherlock shrugged in response. Greg pressed his lips together. "Well, thanks for ruining my coat. I'll have to chuck that now, no use in trying to repair it."

He stood up and carefully took hold of the device, wrapping it in his coat to hopefully muffle the sound a bit. He carried it through to the bathroom and closed it in there.

"What now?" he whispered irritably.

"I don't know," Sherlock said. "I wasn't actually expecting to be right."

Greg stared at him. "You just wanted an excuse to rip my coat up, didn't you?"

"It was a hideous coat," Sherlock informed him.

"So, what now?"

"I don't know. When's Mycroft back?"

"January."

Sherlock nodded. "Act like nothing happened. Mycroft will know. I’ll contact him."

Greg sighed. "There was a couple at a restaurant we went to. Mycroft was really weird about it."

Sherlock nodded. "Mycroft's always weird."

Greg rolled his eyes. "I'm off to bed. Are you going to be alright? Do you need anything?"

"No."

"What should I do about the coat?"

"Leave it for now. Then throw it away tomorrow, but don't destroy the bug."

Greg nodded. "Night, mate." He went into the bathroom to brush his teeth and stared at the offending item of clothing. Who'd done that? And for how long? And more importantly, why?

He had a restless sleep. He dreamed he was running through a maze, a dark figure chasing him, but he could never find out quite who it was. He never saw them. But the sense of foreboding followed him throughout the entire dream.

In the morning, Greg took the coat over to a charity bin a few roads away. He pushed the garment in, considering the bug and how much someone may have heard. He wore that coat regularly, that much was true. And he and Mycroft had shared a lot while the coat was in the room.

With no way of knowing how long it had been in there it made him feel sick. Like if Mycroft were to be in any sort of danger, it was his fault for bringing the bugged coat into their lives. 

 

* * *

 

 

Mycroft called two days later. "Lestrade."

"Don't say a word, just listen to me. Sherlock told me what happened. Don't do anything unusual. We are on top of it, I promise you."

"Myc-"

"-Don't say anything. We are on top of the problem."

Greg bit his lip. There was so much he wanted to say.

"Trust me."

And then Mycroft hung up. Greg stared at his phone as though it had just electrocuted him.

He trusted Mycroft, he really did. But this was all over his head. He was the one in trouble, and he was being kept in the dark. He really did not like it one bit.

 

* * *

 

Four days later, Greg received a letter from Mycroft in the post, typed onto thick paper.

 

 _Dear Greg,_  
 _I am terribly sorry about the phone call the other day, I was trying to ease your concerns and not alarm you. I realise now it may have had the opposite effect._  
 _There are many things I want to explain, but I can’t until I see you in person. I hope you understand._  
 _I hope to see you soon._  
 _Kindest regards,  
_ _Mycroft Holmes._

 

Greg sighed.

A few days later, Greg picked up the silver envelope in his letterbox. He opened it. It was a Christmas card from Caroline.

 

 _To Greg,_  
 _Merry Christmas,  
_ _With love Caroline and Brandon._

 

She’d left the name of her husband-to-be off, which Greg supposed was out of kindness to Greg rather than a sign of the state of their relationship. Inside was another envelope. And the invitation to the wedding reception in February. He threw it away immediately.

Greg was used to days and weeks when he never heard from Mycroft. They didn’t owe each other anything in the messy circumstances in which they had formed some sort of confusing companionship.

So the Christmas card he sent was altogether unexpected and wonderful. On the front was a cartoon reindeer, looking thoroughly miserable as he said “Please stop playing Christmas music.” Greg laughed and opened the card. 

 

 _Dear Greg,_  
 _I will not be offended if you throw this in the bin after reading. I am well aware of your distaste for this time of year - we are very similar in that regard. Nonetheless, have a good Christmas and do not spend the whole occasion alone._  
 _Have a wonderful new year._  
 _Kindest regards,  
_ _Mycroft Holmes_

 

Out of the envelope, Greg pulled out two tickets to the Arsenal game on the day before Christmas Eve. He stared at them for a while before smiling. He didn’t throw the card away. He placed it on the table, beside the other cards he had been given from Sally, Anderson, Edmund, Carter, Caroline and his dad and Rosa. Of all the cards, the one from Mycroft was the most perfect. It was the only card from someone who seemed to actually know him.

Greg sent a card to the Coeur de Lion offices. He had no idea if anyone would pick it up, but with Mycroft away, it seemed the only way he might be able to get some festive correspondence to him. 

 

_To Mycroft,_   
_Merry Christmas. Or Merry belated Christmas if you don't get this until January._   
_Thank you so much for the gift._   
_See you soon,_   
_Greg._

 

* * *

 

On the day before Christmas Eve, Greg and Sam Brockhurst went to the Emirates for the game. They arrived early to avoid the tube being too packed and spent several hours in the pub down the road.

Greg learnt a lot about Sam throughout the afternoon. First that he was quite a fun guy. Second, he moved to London from Manchester two years ago, and he didn't really know anyone either. He had split with his girlfriend a month ago.

And he supported Arsenal. So all in all, a very good man. And potential mate.

Arsenal won 6-2.

They celebrated at a Wetherspoons, Greg keen to avoid the packed tube, though he never explained why to Sam. Sam was more than happy to go along with it and have another pint.

 

* * *

 

He did work over Christmas.

He started with the night shift on Christmas Eve. He slept much of the day, nursing a hangover.

He went to work at 6pm, hoping for a quieter year than the one before. He tore down the tinsel someone had left for him on his computer.

Christmas was, and always would be, the worst time of year for him.

The night shift wasn’t so bad. He heard how terrible things had been for those working the day, and he was grateful for the quiet.

 

* * *

 

He went shopping a few days after Boxing Day. He managed to pick up a new coat and several new shirts and jackets in the sales.

He lay in his bed one evening, lying on his back and wishing he was curling up with Mycroft. It caught him by surprise that he wasn’t imagining them having sex. He was imagining something more domestic. Something more relationship-like. Of course, when he came over his hand later that night, it was Mycroft’s name on his lips.

 

* * *

 

Mycroft called him on New Year’s Eve. He was sat on his sofa with a beer watching Jools Holland’s annual Hootenanny with Rebels For The Cause: The Alternative History of Arsenal Football Club by Jon Spurling, a book his dad had given him for Christmas, when his phone rang.

Greg smiled at the screen, so glad just to see the name pop up. “Lestrade.”

“Good evening.”

Greg smiled wider. Mycroft wasn’t going to tell him to not talk this time then. “Hello. You alright?”

“Very well, and yourself?”

“I’m good. Being lazy.”

“Good. Thank you for the card.”

“Oh, you got it? Good. Well, thanks for the tickets to the game. It was brilliant.”

“6-2 was it?” Mycroft asked.

“It was. Amazing.”

“I’m glad. Happy new year, Greg.”

Greg smiled. “You too.”

“I’m already in 2007.”

Greg laughed. “I’ve got another half an hour to go.”

“I’ll be home on January 4th.”

“Great.” Greg smiled. “Great.”

There was a pause on the line. “Will I see you?”

“Yes. Yeah, of course. Try and keep me away.”

“Oh, I have no inclination to do that. I need to go.”

“G’night. Thanks for calling.”

“You’re welcome. See you very soon.” Mycroft hung up and Greg sighed, his body warm and content. 

 

* * *

 

 

_January, 2007_

Greg took a long sip of his already-cold coffee and wandered across the room to pour another one when one of the duty constables approached him.

“Sir, we’ve got a kid out in the reception. Claims he killed his step-dad.”

Greg frowned. “A kid?”

“He looks about 16.”

Greg nodded. “Alright. I’ll come out and speak to him.”

He followed the PC through to the reception area where he saw the teenager sat in one of the seats. His head was bowed, arms resting on his knees. Greg took a seat beside him. “My name’s Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade. And we’re talking about something very serious here, so I need you to be straight with me and tell me what’s going on.”

“I just killed my step-dad,” the boy said, his voice so quiet Greg hardly heard it. He looked up and Greg saw the black bruise forming on his eye.

Greg swallowed. “Okay. What’s the address?”

“13 Rutherford Street.”

“I’m going to send some of my team there now. I need you to stay with me, is that alright?”

“Yes, sir.”

Greg raised his eyebrows, surprised at how polite he was being. “What’s your name?”

“Dion Martin.”

“How old are you?”

“14.” Christ, he looked older.

“Have you got a parent we can contact?”

“Mum’s in hospital.”

“Alright. Is there a number we can get her on?”

Dion nodded and read it out. Greg quickly scribbled it out into his notebook. He couldn’t just sit with a 14-year-old kid. He needed a woman. Needed Sally.

Greg beckoned the PC over. “Right. I need you to call Sergeant Donovan and get her out here. I need social services. I need Bullock and Brockhurst to go to 13 Rutherford Street. And I also need someone to call the mum on this number.”

The PC nodded. “Yes, boss.” He went back around to the other side of the desk and called Donovan first. She walked out just a minute later. Greg looked at her, his face grave, and she took a seat on the other side of Dion.

“We can’t question him without his mum or social services present,” Greg told her.

Sally nodded. “We can’t just sit out here either.”

Greg frowned. “Alright, Dion. Here’s what we’re going to do. You, me and Sergeant Donovan here are going to go to my office. I can’t arrest you for anything unless we know what we’re arresting you for. We’ve got two officers going to the address now. But I don’t want to sit out here either. So. We’re going to sit in my office, alright?”

The teenager nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“First, I need Sergeant Donovan to check you for weapons, alright?”

Dion stood, and Sally did the checks. “He’s clear.”

Greg nodded. “Right, my office then.” Sally began walking in front and Greg left Dion in between them as they walked through the building and into his office. Greg sat at his desk and told Dion to take the other chair.

Sally brought another chair to the wall nearby, crossing her arms. The boy sat with his head down.

Greg bit his lip. “You a football fan, mate?” he asked.

Dion looked up at him and forced a smile. “Tottenham.”

“Ah, mate. Arsenal.”

The boy smiled a little. “Rough game the other week,” he said.

“Tell me about it,” Greg agreed. “I was watching it on the TV but my voice was completely gone by the end. What a nightmare. I went to the Blackburn Game though.”

“The 6-2? That was wicked.”

Greg smiled. “Yeah, it was. Berbatov’s been good for your lot.”

“Yeah. I met him last month.”

“Yeah? What’s he like?”

“Decent,” Dion said. “Proper nice guy. He signed my top and had a picture. Do you want to see?”

Greg nodded. “Go for it.” Dion handed his phone over and Greg looked at the picture. “That’s great, mate,” he said, handing the phone back.

“Wish we had Drogba though.”

“You and me both,” Greg agreed. “Do you play?”

Dion nodded. “Twice a week. Wednesday nights and Saturday mornings.”

“Any good?”

“I’m alright.”

“What position?”

“Defence.”

Greg smiled. “I’m a midfield. Or pretend to be.”

Dion laughed, but it sounded hollow.

Greg’s phone rang and he picked it up. “Lestrade.”

“Hi, it’s Ed.”

“Hi. What’s up?”

“We’ve got a body of a man. Stabbed in the stomach twice. The knife’s still here to get fingerprints from. Anderson’s on his way to the scene now.”

Greg felt his heart sink. “Alright. Keep me informed.”

“Yes, boss.”

Greg hung up. The desk officer knocked on the door and Greg nodded for him to come in. He walked over and handed Greg a note.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***

_Mum’s in hospital, victim of a domestic assault. The victim is Laurence Martin and he’s the one who assaulted her. She’s in hospital receiving treatment. She was unconscious until half an hour ago, they want to keep her in. Social services on their way. Mum confirms Dion Martin killed Laurence Martin. You are fine to question the kid, with social services present._

Greg sat back in his chair and nodded. “Alright, thanks.” He passed it to Sally who nodded despondently.

The boy had bowed his head again, his hands folded in his lap. It was a cut and dry case as far as the murderer was concerned. But the murderer was a 14-year-old kid, who had probably just killed his violent and abusive step-dad when he couldn’t take it anymore.

Greg saw it played out in his head without needing to be told what had happened. The step-dad was beating the mum. So badly, she ended up unconscious. The kid intervened, got a smack around the face for his trouble and he just couldn’t take it anymore. So he grabbed a knife and stabbed him twice. He probably took the mum somewhere safe, called for an ambulance. And then handed himself in.

Greg couldn’t blame him. It was devastating. Knowing this polite teenager would be going to prison was a sickening thought.

He couldn’t arrest or question him until the boy had representation, so he did the only thing he knew how. He talked.

“What’s your favourite subject at school?”

“D.T.”

“D.T?”

“Design and technology. We do woodwork and metal work. I’m really good with metal. I want to be a mechanic.” He bit his lip and smiled wistfully. “Well, I did. S’pose there’s not much point wanting that now, is there?”

Greg saw Sally look towards the door to avoid his eyes. She was biting down hard on her bottom lip. Greg swallowed. “C’mon. You can be a mechanic. Why’d you want to be a mechanic?”

“I can’t be a mechanic in jail.”

“We can’t talk about this without social service, mate. Talk to me about school.”

Dion nodded. “Okay. I just like doing stuff with my hands. I like cars. Fast cars.”

“Formula 1?”

“Love Formula 1.”

“I never got the appeal myself. Just cars going round and round a track.”

“It’s the skills. The drivers are amazing. I was reading about the history of it. I have this book, it’s like this thick.” He held up his thumb and index finger. “It’s about the history of F1. And the stuff they did. It was so dangerous.”

Oh God. This wasn’t just a polite kid. This was an intelligent one too, with hopes and dreams and a horrible, violent step-dad he’d just killed to protect his mum.

“Like what?” Greg asked.

“Like there was a massive certainty of dying. They went on the track thinking it would happen every time. Some of the tracks were real dangerous. And the cars weren’t safe either. Jackie Stewart – you know Jackie Stewart?”

“Yeah, I’ve heard of him.”

“He used to tape a screwdriver to the steering wheel in case he had to get himself out of the car.”

Greg raised his eyebrows. “Wow, that’s not good.”

“He was amazing,” Dion said. “Such a good racer. I’ve seen videos on YouTube. He was awesome.”

Another knock on the door came, confirming a woman from social services had arrived. She walked into the room and smiled sympathetically at Greg before introducing herself.

“My name’s Anna Rowe,” she said, walking over to Dion. “I’m going to explain the procedure to you now and I’m going to be sat with you the whole time. If you’re tired or finding it difficult, we can ask for a time out, okay?”

Dion nodded. “Yes, mam.”

Greg stood. "We need to go to the interview room now. Anna, I'll give you a bit of time with him if you want it?"

She nodded. "Thanks, Lestrade."

Greg led them all through the office and through to the room. He'd worked with Anna Rowe a few times. She did her job well, and she and Greg had a lot of respect for one another. She was brilliant with the kids, whether they were suspects, witnesses or victims. And Greg trusted her to tell this kid everything he needed to know, while pressing on him the fact that anything he told her wasn't a secret. She could be called in as a witness too if necessary.

Greg and Sally gave them five minutes in the room. Sally shook her head. "I want to just let him walk out of here," she said. "I know how this is going to go."

"Yeah, me too," Greg said. "Brave kid. Brave, smart kid."

They stood in silence outside the room before finally walking in and taking some seats. Anna smiled politely at them and Greg turned on the tape.

"This is Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade with Sergeant Sally Donovan at-" he checked his watch. "-4.23pm on January 4, 2007. In here with me is Anna Rowe from social services. We have Dion Martin, a suspect in the murder of Laurence Martin. Can you state your name, age, date of birth and address for the record please?"

Dion did as he was told. His voice shook a bit. Greg nodded encouragingly at him.

He read him his rights.

"Alright. Can you tell me your relationship with the deceased. That's Laurence Martin, please."

Dion rubbed his eyes. "He was my step-dad."

"How long for?"

"Four years."

"Can you tell me what happened today?"

Dion swallowed. "I killed him."

Greg saw Sally's lips pressed tightly together, one hand gripping the table. Greg knew exactly how she felt. Anna was sat calmly opposite her. Thank God someone in this room was holding it together.

"What happened?" Greg asked gently.

"He... he beat my mum." Dion’s bottom lip trembled.

"It's okay," Anna said.

"He was proper battering her. I've seen him do it loads of times but not like this it was... She was screaming and crying and trying to get me to go away. And then he gave her another hit and she fell and I... I lost it. I just lost it." He shook his head. "I lost it."

"What happened?"

"I grabbed a knife and I... I just stabbed him."

"How many times?"

"Twice, sir."

"Did he strike you?" Greg asked.

"Yeah. Yeah, once round the head, but it doesn't hurt."

"What room were you in?"

"The kitchen, sir. He's been beating my mum up since they got married. I just... I lost it, I couldn't deal with it anymore. And she's safe now. She's safe."

"What did you do after you'd stabbed him?" Greg asked.

"I picked my mum up. I carried her to the church down the road, and called an ambulance. I sat outside hiding 'til it came and then... then I came here, sir. I broke the law and mum brought me up proper, y'know? She said people who do wrong things should be punished for them. So. So, I'm here now."

"We're going to take prints from the knife. Who's will they be?" Greg asked.

"They'll be mine."

"Where was the knife when you took it?"

"It was on the side. Mum had been making dinner when he started smacking her around." Dion rubbed his face. "But she's safe now," he said resolutely. "She's gonna be safe now."

“Alright, mate. Here’s what we’re going to do now. We need to wait for some fingerprints to come through. Sergeant Donovan will take your fingerprints and go through some paperwork. Anna will be here the whole time. If you want to pause at anytime, just tell her and she’ll sort it.” Greg stood. "Anna, will you talk him through the process?"

"Of course." 

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***

 

Greg nodded at Dion and mouthed 'good lad' at him. He stood up and made for the door.

"What's prison like?" Dion asked.

Greg turned and frowned at him. "It's no walk in the park. Look, I shouldn't probably say this, but I like you, kid. You've got stuck in a shit situation, and you did what you could to protect your mum."

"Lestrade-" Anna cut in but Greg shook his head.

"No, I need to say this. Prison, even youth prison, is a tough place to be. But you do something for your mum, yeah? You listening?"

"I'm listening."

"Keep your head down. Stay outta trouble. Do your GCSEs. They might even do mechanics training courses, I don't know. Work hard, alright? Don't just fall into the traps the other kids do. Make your mum proud."

"I'll make you proud too, sir. I promise."

"You don't owe me anything, mate."

"I was really scared, Inspector. I'm glad it was you who spoke to me."

Greg stared at him and swallowed. "Alright. Make me proud. I'll be keeping an eye on you, y'hear?"

Dion smiled a bit.

"Good lad," Greg said softly and walked out because he couldn't bear to look at him anymore. Greg walked briskly to his office and shut the door. He rubbed his hands over his face, closing his eyes. God damn it.

Sally walked in a minute later. "That was amazing, Lestrade. How you were with him."

"It's killing me," Greg admitted.

"I know. Are you coming to the pub tonight?"

Greg hesitated. "No. I'm going to. Something else."

"See Mycroft?"

"Yeah."

Sally smiled. "Good. Too many of us are lonely around here. I'm glad you won't be another one."

"He's going to struggle in jail. He's too nice."

"I know."

"It's not right to kill people, Sally. But that bloke had it coming."

Sally nodded. "How long will he get?"

"I'm not sure. Mycroft will know. I'll ask him."

 

* * *

 

Greg drove to Crusader House at 7.54pm. He didn't know if Mycroft would be there or if he'd want to see him or would be busy, but he was the only person in the world he wanted to see right now. So even if it was just for a minute, it would be worth it.

The butler was having none of it. "You don't have an appointment, sir."

"I don't need a bloody appointment to see him."

"You do, sir. Everyone needs an appointment."

"He will want to see me. And if he doesn't then I will come straight back out. Look, I’ve been coming here for months. Have you ever seen him kick me out?"

The butler stared at him. "Very well. On your head be it."

Greg rolled his eyes and strolled through the door. Mycroft was sat on the sofa, and Greg smiled a bit even just at the back of his head. Mycroft turned to look at him. He smiled warmly for a split second before his face fell. “Oh, Greg. What happened?”

Greg sat down on the other side of the sofa. He wanted nothing more than to feel Mycroft's arms around him, but he needed to explain first. He needed to explain without falling apart.

"We had a 14-year-old kid come in. Killed his step-dad. He was violent and abusive for years and. Well. Kid came in to confess."

"I am sorry."

Greg shook his head. "Just a really shit day. He is such a good kid. Bright and polite and he wanted to be a mechanic. It just. It got to me, that's all."

"I understand."

Greg looked at him. "How much time will he get?"

"A good lawyer will instruct him to plead guilty to murder. They will use the defence of provocation. Was the killing premeditated?"

"No. It happened in the kitchen, and he just grabbed a knife off the side."

"Good. That will help. His confession and plea will contribute to a lesser sentence. Has he been in trouble with the law before?"

"No, totally clean record."

"No more than five years then," Mycroft said. 

"Five years in jail?"

"Maximum. Has he got a lawyer?"

"Only on legal aid."

"I will see to it that he has a good one."

Greg stared at him. "You don't need to do that."

"I know. But I want to. Please. Allow me."

Greg was too exhausted to try to argue. "Yeah. Please. Thank you."

"No need to thank me."

Greg looked down at his knees and then back at Mycroft. "I missed you."

"And I, you."

Greg smiled a bit and shuffled over the sofa towards him. They looked at each other for a second before Greg finally kissed him. He savoured the feel of his soft lips against his. They shared several small kisses, just enjoying each other. Mycroft touched his cheek. Greg forced a smile and pressed their foreheads together. "Enough about me. How was your day?"

“I worked with secret services in three separate European countries to prevent a coordinated terrorist attack.”

Greg raised his eyebrows. “Holy shit. That’s… that’s unbelievable.”

Mycroft's face fell a bit. It meant a lot to Greg that he wasn't masking anything. “There was an unexpected explosion in a fourth country," he murmured, his voice distant and lost. "120 people died and counting.”

“Mycroft… God. I’m so…” Greg shook his head. There weren’t any apologies or condolences he could give to make that better. So instead, he dropped his head to Mycroft’s chest, entwining Mycroft’s fingers with his own as he listened to his steady heartbeat. Mycroft’s lips were pressed against Greg’s forehead as they lay there, legs wrapped up in each other’s.

What else could they do, what was there ever to say?

"I'm sorry," Greg whispered. "I just barged in here and-"

"Shh. No apologies. I'm glad you're here."

Greg looked at him. "Me too."

Mycroft wrapped his arms around him and held him close to his chest. Greg surreptitiously inhaled his scent. He knew he'd missed him. He hadn't realised it was this much.

They lay together in silence, their legs entwined and Mycroft's thumb caressing his knuckles. Greg allowed himself to relax, just enjoy. He was so relived to be back here. Back in his arms. And though he didn’t want to let those thoughts into his head, though he wanted to pretend it hardly mattered, he couldn’t do it. This was where he wanted to be.

“Would you like a tea or a coffee?” Mycroft asked.

“Coffee would be good, thanks.”

Mycroft kissed his forehead and stood up. Greg watched him go, brushing his hand through his hair. He sat for a few moments, just looking around the familiar living room, before getting up and wandering to the kitchen.

Mycroft was just pouring their drinks when Greg stepped behind him, resting his chin against Mycroft’s shoulder. Mycroft leaned back against him.

“Sorry,” Greg murmured.

“What on earth for?”

“I’m being needy,” Greg mumbled. “It’s not a… a good thing really.”

Mycroft turned around and looked at him. “You’ve had a difficult day.”

“So have you.”

Mycroft’s arms wrapped around his neck and Greg dropped his head onto his shoulder. “It’s alright,” Mycroft murmured. Greg wrapped his arms around his waist, sighing.

Mycroft pulled back from the hug and Greg glanced at his face. He felt like Mycroft was trying to read his mind so he looked past him, staring at the oven instead. “It’s perfectly normal,” Mycroft said. “To think things will be different after a month.”

Greg frowned and looked back at him. “What?”

“I still want to have sex with you, Greg.”

“Oh. I wasn’t. I don’t think I was worried about that.”

“No?”

Greg bit his lip. “Okay, I didn’t realise I was worried about that.”

Mycroft smiled and stroked Greg’s cheek with the backs of his fingers. “Let me finish making these coffees and then you can tell me all about your Christmas.”

“Not much to tell,” Greg said, stepping aside to let Mycroft reach for the milk.

“I very much doubt that. But I will fill you in on my month if you’d prefer. Oh, and talk to you about the bugging equipment.”

Greg had almost forgotten about that. “Right, yeah, okay.”

He stood and watched as Mycroft finished making their coffees and found a biscuit to put on either side of the saucers. Greg took his own cup from him and carried it back through to the living room where Mycroft joined him on the sofa.

“So, what have you been up to?” Greg asked him, dunking his biscuit in the hot drink and taking a bite.

“Numerous things. It’s expected the Kazakhstan president will head the Organisation For Security and Cooperation In Europe in 2009.”

Greg frowned. “I have no idea what that is and why is that being decided now?”

“Because of oil. It’s a security-orientated organisation, preoccupied mostly with arms control, freedom of the press and human rights. Kazakhstan has oil, so Nazarbayev is likely to get the post. Belgium and the UK are behind his campaign. The United States is not.”

“Because we want cheap oil?” Greg asked.

“Any oil will do,” Mycroft replied. “So that was the first thing. There were some unexpected security matters I cannot discuss. I spent time in Russia the majority of the month. We have been trying, with some difficulty, to convince them to extradite suspects associated with the radioactive poisoning of Alexander Litvinenko. He died in London in November after cooperating with MI6 on various matters.”

“I remember,” Greg said. “It was all over the news.”

Mycroft nodded. “It’s going to rumble on for years, I assure you. Eliza Manningham-Buller stepped down from her position at the head of MI5. And I think that is all I can discuss with you.”

Greg smiled a bit and sipped his coffee. He pulled a face as he burnt his tongue. “Sounds like you’ve been busy.”

“Very. Greg, you’re incredibly impatient. You can’t drink water which has just reached boiling point. You do it every single time you drink a hot drink, I can’t understand how you haven’t learnt by now.”

Greg looked at him and laughed. “Shut up.”

Mycroft chuckled and ate his biscuit. “How has your month been?”

“Not bad. Easily wrapped up cases, a few days in court, I did the night shift over Christmas. That was better than last year. Just watched sport on TV and was quiet really.”

Mycroft nodded and sipped from his coffee. “There, you see. Perfect temperature now.”

Greg laughed and gently nudged his thigh. “Stop it.”

Mycroft smiled at him. “How do you do it?”

“Do what?” Greg asked, looking at him.

“Make it so quiet.”

“Funny that,” Greg murmured. “I had your brother asking me how you seemed so quiet when his brain was so loud.”

Mycroft frowned a bit. “Is he okay?”

“The usual, I think. I haven’t seen much of him. I’ve done a couple of drug hunts at his flat. He’s ignoring you on purpose.”

“I know.”

Greg nodded and sipped his drink. It was a tolerable temperature this time. He noted that burnt feeling on his tongue. It never lasted too long anyway. Greg placed his spare hand on Mycroft’s thigh and smiled when the other man threaded their fingers together. They sat and enjoyed the rest of their coffees and biscuits in the quiet, watching the fire flickering on the other side of the room.

Greg eventually put his cup down on the table and tilted his body closer into Mycroft’s. Mycroft leaned forward to put his own cup down.

They curled up again, Mycroft’s hand finding Greg’s upper back where he rubbed slow circles with his fingers, easing away the tension of the day. Greg gradually relaxed against him.

“Greg," Mycroft whispered after a while.

Greg looked at him. “Yeah?”

“I want you.”

Greg's breath caught at those words. His chest clenched. Oh God. ”You’ve got me," he managed to say as he looked up. Mycroft's lips found his. The kiss was slow, exploring, hesitant. Greg wished he could say everything would be okay, just with a kiss.

He couldn’t. But he’d try.

They kissed as though it was the only thing in the world that could keep them alive. Greg moved closer, sliding a hand around Mycroft’s neck.

Their bodies found a comfortable position against each other as a hard kiss became more tender again, lips exploring with different pressures. It felt so normal to be kissing Mycroft again. Like they hadn’t ever been apart.

Greg lifted his head and Mycroft’s thumb stroked his top lip as his other fingers pressed tightly against his jaw, like he was trying to keep Greg right there, so he knew he was real. Greg flicked his tongue out, licking his thumb before drawing it into his mouth. Mycroft’s eyes widened as he sucked on it, holding Mycroft’s eyes. Mycroft moved his hand away, kissing Greg with urgency. Need took over all of Greg’s senses as they deepened the kiss, Greg pulling at Mycroft’s clothing but getting no real purchase nor making any real effort to push it aside.

Mycroft’s teeth grazed his bottom lip and he pulled back, holding onto Greg and keeping their faces close. “Alright?” Greg asked.

“I believe we should move to the bedroom,” Mycroft murmured, his eyes ducking to Greg’s lips.

“Oh yeah,” Greg breathed out. “Yeah, that’s good. We should.”

He untangled himself from Mycroft’s embrace, adjusting his clothes. Mycroft stood and Greg followed him to the door. Greg took in a long breath as he realised he was about to be let into Mycroft’s bedroom for the first time.

Floor-to-ceiling wood panels lined the room, surrounding a bed with deep red sheets in the centre. The furniture - a cupboard, a chest of drawers and a bedside cabinet either side of the bed - were all dark wood.

Greg let out a soft breath as Mycroft closed the curtains, turning on a single lamp so the room was filled with its warm glow. They looked at each other from across the room. Greg smiled slowly, raking his eyes down his body.

Mycroft stalked towards him and Greg drew him into a kiss, wrapping his arms around his waist and walking them towards the bed. Greg sat down on it, kicking his shoes off and lying down. Mycroft bent down to untie his own shoes, leaving them neatly beside the wall.

He looked down at Greg for a few seconds before crawling onto the bed and kissing him again.

Greg had his body pressed against Mycroft’s, his hands lingering over his hips, moving to touch his backside, feeling him shift more firmly against his body as he did so. His mind felt as though it was running in slow motion, every action realised a few moments after it happened.

Greg heard himself let out a soft, desperate sigh as Mycroft’s tongue made one long strong lick down the side of his neck, and he reached up to thread his fingers through Mycroft’s hair.

Hard lingering kisses replaced his tongue, and they moved to Greg’s throat, and Greg felt his breath sound shaky as it exited his mouth and he closed his eyes. They lay there for a while like that, fully clothed, just kissing and enjoying the feel of being this close to somebody again after what had felt like so long.

Mycroft’s lips pressed against his, closing against his bottom lip and sucking it gently. Greg moved his hands to Mycroft’s waistcoat, carefully unfastening the buttons with as much care as he possible while trying to push his tongue into his mouth.

Greg made soft sounds in his throat as their tongues flicked together. Bitter, coffee-flavoured kisses intermingled with sweetness.

Mycroft rocked their hips together and Greg wrapped one leg around him. Mycroft’s hands found his and he lifted them above Greg’s head, entwining their fingers as he nipped his lip, kissed his jaw and then latched his lips onto Greg’s neck. Greg shook with pleasure.

Mycroft wasn’t dominating him in this position, though with his hands held like that it could easily have felt like it. He was possessing him, completely and utterly.

Their lips met again and Mycroft sat up. Greg struggled out of his jumper and t-shirt, tossing them onto the floor and pulling Mycroft back down again. Mycroft sucked on a spot on his neck, a place where his t-shirt would cover the inevitable mark he was leaving.

“Need your clothes off,” Greg whispered horsely. “C’mon.”

Mycroft chuckled, kissed him once, and allowed Greg to push his waistcoat off and then turn his attention to his shirt. Greg felt Mycroft’s eyes on his as he unfastened each button, stroking the skin the opening of each one revealed. He turned his attention to the cufflinks, setting them down on the side. He looked into Mycroft’s eyes as he pushed the garment off his shoulders.

He couldn’t hide his smile. Didn’t really see the need to. It was just so good to have Mycroft back. Like he’d never been away. They both lay there, gazing at each other. Greg brushed a hand through the other man’s hair. “I want to draw it out,” he said. “I want to just… but I can’t.”

“I know,” Mycroft said, leaning down to kiss his cheek.

Greg dropped his hands to Mycroft’s belt, quickly pulling it out, before unbuttoning his trousers. “I want to feel you.”

He pushed Mycroft’s trousers down and Mycroft rolled off him to take them down along with his socks. Greg wriggled out of his jeans, stripping every piece of clothing off and turning to look at the man lying naked beside him.

Greg rolled onto his side and Mycroft did the same, their mouths meeting as they pressed together again, chests and legs touching. Greg felt the heat radiating through their bodies.

Mycroft’s hot breath brushed against his jaw. Greg pushed him down onto his back, straddling his hips. Mycroft smiled up at him, moving his hands over his chest. “Do you ever think we’re too old for this?” he asked.

Greg laughed. “No, I don’t.” He leaned down and kissed him. “I think we’re the perfect age for this. Why else would we have fantastic sex?”

Mycroft’s hands moved down to his hips. Greg felt his cock pressing against his arse and he moved a bit, grinning as Mycroft gasped. Mycroft reached for the drawer and Greg kissed his neck as he moved and retrieved a small brown box. Greg raised his eyebrows. “You keep them in a box?” he asked, amused.

“I certainly do.” Mycroft retrieved the lubricant and a condom, setting them down on a pillow.

Greg grinned at him. “You’re ridiculous,” he said, playfully biting his jaw. “You’re amazing.” He kissed his chin. “And I want you. So, please don’t take all night.”

Mycroft chuckled and slicked his fingers. “I wasn’t planning to. Nonetheless, it is quite tempting to tie you up and make you wait.”

“You dare,” Greg murmured, trying to sound threatening. He glared down at Mycroft, a smile teasing the side of his mouth.

Mycroft’s eyes narrowed at him, sparkling with good humour. “Are you threatening me, Greg?”

“Yeah, I guess I am.” Greg bit his lip and stared down at him. Mycroft grasped his arms and rolled them over, holding Greg’s hands up above his head with one hand. Greg laughed. “Oi!” Mycroft’s other hand trailed down his side and Greg squirmed, laughing. “Hey! No, I’m ticklish there, that’s not fair.”

Mycroft’s fingers began to dig into his side and Greg laughed harder, writhing on the bed trying to get away. “Hey! Not fair!” He laughed until his stomach hurt, Mycroft laughing with him. “C’mon, please! No more, I can’t! I can’t take it.”

Mycroft’s fingers stopped moving and they laughed together as they kissed messily and easily. They nudged their noses together as Mycroft reached for the lubricant again. Greg grinned and wiped the excess lube off his wrist and onto the pillow. Mycroft raised an eyebrow at him. “It’ll come off in the wash,” Greg smiled back. Greg spread his legs, lifting one at the knee. “C’mon,” he whispered. “Please, I can’t keep waiting.”

“Impatient,” Mycroft said.

“Like you’re not.”

Mycroft smiled and kissed him as he slowly worked his finger inside him. Greg groaned against his lips, flicking his tongue out. He pressed down against Mycroft’s finger, relaxing against the mattress. He sighed as Mycroft began to move his finger, and curled his toes into the sheets. “Yeah,” he whispered, stroking Mycroft’s cheek with the backs of his fingers. “You’re s’good.”

Greg made a deep sound in the back of his throat as Mycroft eased a second finger into him. They looked at each other. Mycroft’s eyes were dark and needy. He curled his fingers and Greg gasped. “Yeah, got it,” he said.

“I know,” Mycroft replied playfully, leaning down and nipping his bottom lip.

“Got me all figured out, right?” Greg grinned, gasping as Mycroft’s fingers teased his prostate again. “Okay, yeah, definitely have. God, yeah.”

Mycroft’s fingers continued to move inside him, and Greg arched his hips up. “C’mon,” he whined breathlessly. “I’m ready, I’m so bloody ready it’s not funny or fair to keep doing this to me.”

Mycroft chuckled and slowly withdrew his fingers. He let out a cry of surprise as Greg pushed him down onto his back and straddled him. Greg grabbed the condom and quickly opened the foil. He began to kiss slowly down Mycroft’s chest, kissing the cigarette scar and the scar from his fall off a wall as he went.

He flicked his tongue inside his belly button and made Mycroft laugh and curl his fingers in Greg’s hair. Greg allowed himself a few seconds to admire his body and his cock before resting the condom on the top of it. He wrapped his lips over the head of Mycroft’s cock, rolling the condom down with his mouth as he went. Mycroft was breathing hard above him, his fingers tightening in his hair but not pushing.

Greg sucked hard for a few seconds before lifting his head and pushing the condom down the rest of the way with his fingers. He picked the lubricant up and slicked his hand, wrapping it around Mycroft’s cock. Mycroft gasped, pressing his heels into the mattress.

Greg straddled him, reaching behind him to grasp Mycroft’s cock and press it against his entrance. He let out a steadying breath as he rubbed it against his hole a few times before slowly sinking down on it. Mycroft was holding his hips, their eyes glued on each other’s as Greg pressed down until he was buried inside.

Greg stayed still, closing his eyes for a brief second to adjust to the sensation of it again. Knowing it was Mycroft. Inside him. That feeling came over him again - of being possessed. Totally possessed and claimed. Because he’d left himself open to him. Mycroft could just come and take whatever he wanted from him. Scary, that thought. Scary how he’d left himself so exposed.

Mycroft braced his hands against the bed as he pushed himself up to a sitting position, pressing their chests together. Greg groaned as he kissed him, slowly beginning to move, just a bit, just rocking his hips. Mycroft kissed him hard, his fingers possessively on the back of his neck.

Greg felt as though every inch of his body was on fire. Mycroft’s fingers roamed over his body, one curling around his arse and squeezing, the other just brushing over his nipple, and then down onto his thigh. Their lips met in panting kisses.

Greg’s mind stopped working. He focused purely on this moment, purely on the heat and longing between them. He let Mycroft’s cock slip almost completely from him before pushing back down again, and they both trembled, both clung onto each other.

Their lips were met in frenzied kisses, breathless and heady. Mycroft’s arms wrapped tightly around him and he rolled their bodies over, remaining inside as he pushed Greg down onto his back. Greg wrapped one leg around his waist, the other coming up to rest on top of Mycroft’s shoulder.

The angle pressed Mycroft’s cock hard against his prostate and he cried out, grasping at Mycroft’s back. Mycroft drove into him. Their teeth clanged together as they kissed, hard and wet and desperate.

And Greg didn’t want to come, he didn’t want it to end, but it was building in the pit of his stomach. So desperate for release.

Mycroft’s hand found his cock and he pumped it a few times before Greg let go and came, his body shaking and tensing and then finally relaxing. Mycroft thrust once more before he went so still and his mouth fell open. Mycroft’s eyes closed. Greg managed to keep his own open as he watched him come completely undone. It was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

This man. So protected behind his armour. And now he just let himself go with all abandon. And he let Greg share it. Greg felt his chest tighten. He was the most privileged man in the world to have seen this.

Mycroft collapsed onto him and Greg held him tightly against him. They both were breathing hard, wrapped around each other in a sticky mess and not even caring.

They lay there for goodness knows how long. A mess of hot and sweaty limbs. Sex was dirty, but it was about the connection between the two of them. A connection forged about a year ago on Mycroft’s sofa. Greg knew when this ended, he would dream of it. He would imagine a closeness like this, a tenderness and passion he would never have again. It made him hurt to know it must end. Like all the good things he’d ever had.

When Mycroft went away, it was going to kill him. So he held tighter to his hot skin. He traced patterns with his finger over his back. He closed his eyes and tried to bury the images and the sensation into his head so when he was alone again, he could take it out of the box in his head and feel it again.

Imagine it all. Imagine he was still there.

Mycroft lifted his head and kissed him lazily. Greg smiled a bit, trying to stop the pessimism he felt from leaking into his expression. Mycroft withdrew from him slowly and Greg sighed, stretching out along the bed.

“I will be back in a moment,” Mycroft said, standing up and reaching for his dressing gown. Almost hesitating as he did so, he leaned down and kissed Greg’s top lip.

Greg watched him go into the en-suite, adjusting the pillows and the sheets. He saw the condom wrapper down on the floor beside him and let himself relax into the sheets for a moment.

He got up and hunted around the room, eventually finding a pair of Mycroft’s pyjama trousers. He stepped out into the lounge, walking to the other bathroom.

He took in his flushed face in the mirror and after washing his hands and returning to the bedroom he was surprised to see Mycroft already back and under the sheets.

Greg hesitated.

He immediately realised he wished he could curl up under the covers and fall asleep with Mycroft beside him. Maybe he should just go then. Greg picked up his boxers and pulled the trousers down.

“Stay, Greg,” Mycroft said softly from the bed.

Greg bit his lip, not looking at him. “You sure?”

“If you would like to stay, then yes, I’m sure.”

Greg glanced at him. He knew that one word - stay - carried a lot of weight between them. Back at university, when he’d been sleeping around, he spent the whole night with a lot of people. The first time he had sex with Caroline, they’d slept together all night long.

But he and Mycroft had never done that, in an entire year of sexual encounters. ‘Stay’ meant something. It said stay the night. It said I am willing to let you get close to me. It said I acknowledge something real is happening between us. It said stay, here, with me. It said I need you here.

Greg dropped his boxers back down onto the floor and made his way towards the bed. Mycroft pulled back a corner of the covers to let him in. Greg slid under the covers. Mycroft held his arms out to him and they curled up together.

Greg rested his head against Mycroft’s chest, their legs entwining beneath the covers. Both naked and warm, they lay like that for a while.

“We need to talk about the bug,” Greg murmured.

“You’re right. We do.”

“What’s going on?”

“It is as I suspected. I am being targeted, over what I’m not sure. And you are being used to get to me.”

Greg sighed. “They probably heard all our conversations.”

“Quite a few of them, yes.”

“Does this-”

“-It doesn’t change a thing,” Mycroft said firmly, his hand stroking Greg’s back.

Greg nodded. “I don’t need to know anything else. I’m fine with that.”

Mycroft yawned.

“Y’sure you want me to stay?” Greg asked, looking at him.

“More than anything,” Mycroft replied.

Greg smiled at him and they kissed lightly before Greg slid out of his embrace and lay down on the bed on his back. He closed his eyes, rubbing his hand against the soft pillow. “This mattress is the single most comfortable thing I’ve ever felt. Lie down, Mycroft.”

Mycroft turned the light out before sliding down underneath the sheets and onto his side, facing Greg but with what felt like metres between them.

They lay there for a few moments, Greg wondering whether he should move closer, or just fall asleep like this. The internal debate went on for a while.

After several minutes, he heard Mycroft move, felt Mycroft’s warm cheek press against his shoulder and his arm stretch out across Greg’s chest.

Greg rested his hand on Mycroft’s arm, letting out a soft sigh and allowing sleep to take hold of him almost instantly. 


	32. In A Year Of New Beginnings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've added a chapter count! Eeek! I reckon it could stretch to maybe 80 chapters. But yeah. The entire fic is planned out. Scary times! I think the last lot is going to be made up of longer chapters which I may need to post with a day apart. But it's just the way I can see it going. A warning in advance!  
> Thank you to my beautiful commentators. To Jaeh, to JustLookFrightenedAndScuttle, to Spooky831, to Mice, to MisplacedLonelyHeartsAd, to KingTaran, to Jalizar, to WhiskeySally, to vanya, to Novels, to OwlinAutumn, to Velma, to canetr, to jill and to MoonRiver. You are all complete and utter superstars. Thank you!

_January, 2007_

Greg woke up on his side, a warm body pressed against his back. An arm was wrapped over his chest. Greg moved towards the embrace and the arm tightened its hold.

Mycroft.

Greg smiled a little, stroked his thumb against Mycroft’s fingers. He leaned over the bed and pressed a button on his phone to check the time. It was only 5.04am. No need to move yet. Mycroft’s arm pressed more firmly against him, urging him back towards him. Greg grinned and edged closer again.

He felt Mycroft kiss the back of his neck. “Go back to sleep, Greg,” he whispered, his thumb moving against his chest.

Greg smiled and closed his eyes. He’d just woken up with Mycroft Holmes. And Mycroft Holmes wasn’t forcing him to leave.

It was a position he would never have expected to be in. And Greg didn’t want it to end. Or to go back to sleep, because if he were sleeping, then he wasn’t aware Mycroft was holding him like this. Though the closeness of it all took him by surprise; he didn’t want it to stop.

Mycroft’s fingers continued to stroke his skin. “Go back to sleep, Mycroft,” Greg grinned.

He heard Mycroft chuckle behind him. “Yes,” he agreed.

Greg grinned to himself, knowing full-well Mycroft wasn’t making an effort to sleep, his fingers stroking Greg’s own, brushing through his chest hair. Greg stretched and turned in Mycroft’s arms.

The room was dark, and Greg could just make out the outline of him. He moved forward slightly and his nose brushed against Mycroft’s cheek. They both laughed. In the dark, their lips found each other’s as they shared a tender closed-mouthed kiss. Mycroft’s fingers touched Greg’s jaw and Greg wrapped an arm over his waist.

Greg kissed Mycroft’s shoulder before shuffling down, pressing his lips to Mycroft’s chest. Mycroft rolled onto his back and Greg curled up to his side. Mycroft’s arms wrapped over him and Greg closed his eyes, listening to his heartbeat.

Greg let out a contented sigh as Mycroft’s fingers traced patterns over his back. His body relaxed and he drifted back off to sleep.

 

* * *

 

When Greg woke again, the sun was desperately trying to make its presence known behind the curtains. Greg glanced up at Mycroft’s face and smiled, closing his eyes again and relaxing against his body.

“Good morning,” Mycroft whispered, tightening his hold on him.

Greg tangled their legs together. “Mornin’,” he said sleepily. Greg smiled in surprise as Mycroft’s lips brushed against his forehead.

“Did you sleep well?”

“Like a baby,” Greg said, opening his eyes again and looking up at his dishevelled hair, the faintest stubble shadow on his jaw. Mycroft’s eyes were still closed but he was smiling and relaxed. “You?”

“Yes, it was a good night.”

Greg grinned and kissed his chest. “Mmm. Agreed.” He closed his eyes and smiled when Mycroft’s hand found his and held it.

“You’re not working today,” Mycroft said.

“Nope.”

“Neither am I. How would you like to spend the day?”

Greg hesitated for a second. How would he like to spend the day? Well, spending it with Mycroft would be a good start. Spend more time in bed, have a lazy shower, breakfast then… well, the day would be theirs really, wouldn’t it?

“I haven’t thought about it,” Greg said.

Mycroft’s fingers stroked his back. “Stay here for a while then. And perhaps a shower?”

Greg smiled. “At the same time, yeah?”

“As though you read my mind,” Mycroft said. “And then breakfast,” he continued. “A trip to your flat so you may pick up some clothes and then a day in London, concluding with lunch and dinner. How does that suit you?”

A smile spread over Greg’s face and he looked at him. “Are you serious?”

“I’m serious.”

Greg kissed him. “Then yeah. That all sounds great.”

“Excellent.” Mycroft smiled and kissed Greg’s cheek. “However, I intend to make the most of this for a while.”

Greg grinned and shuffled down again so he could put his head back on Mycroft’s chest. “Yeah, I’m in favour of that plan too.”

He closed his eyes again, enjoying the quiet and the sounds of their shared breathing. He couldn’t believe he was this content. This warm.

“What do you want to do in London?” he asked, opening his eyes to watch as his finger traced the tendons and veins on Mycroft’s hand.

“I’m not sure. Are there any particular places you would like to visit? Any tourist attractions you’ve never been to?”

Greg shook his head. “Where’s your favourite place in London?”

“The Natural History Museum.” Mycroft’s voice sounded so delighted at the mere thought of it, Greg wanted to make him say it again.

“I’ve never been,” Greg told him. “What’s so great about it?”

“It’s full of dinosaurs and fossils. And Archaeopteryx.”

“Arch what?” Greg asked, looking at him. “Actually, don’t tell me. You can show it to me later.”

“You want to go?” Mycroft asked, opening his eyes.

“Yeah, I do. I want to see the place that’s just made your face look like that.”

Mycroft looked almost shy as he bit his lip. “You may find it dull.”

“I won’t. You can explain what everything is to me. I really like listening to you explain things.”

Mycroft chuckled. “You may be the only one.”

“That’s fine with me,” Greg smiled, nuzzling Mycroft’s neck. He was lying naked in bed with Mycroft Holmes talking about the day they were about to spend together. Huh. How had his life changed this much in the space of a year?

Mycroft pressed light kisses to his hair before reaching over Greg and checking his phone. Greg stayed curled up to him as Mycroft played with the device, making the occasional tutting sound.

“I just need to use the bathroom,” he said. “I’ll be back in a moment.” He kissed Greg before getting out of the bed and wrapping himself in a dressing gown. Greg watched him go with a self-satisfied smile. Yeah, he was perfect.

Mycroft returned 10 minutes later with a tray and a newspaper. He set the tray down as he slid back under the covers and propped the pillows up against the headboard. Greg sat up beside him, their arms brushing together. Mycroft carefully handed him a coffee. “I didn’t boil the water, so it should be fine to drink straight away.”

Greg grinned. “Cheers.” He sipped his drink as Mycroft opened out the paper. Greg rested his cheek against his shoulder, reading the headlines and looking at the pictures. “Hey, I solved that case,” he said, pointing to one of the stories.

Mycroft smiled and read it. “Very well done.” He turned the page. “Ah. I was involved in that incident last year.”

Greg laughed. “If I pick up a paper, is there always a story in there you’ve been involved in?”

Mycroft chuckled. “Not if I’ve done my job right.”

Greg snorted and kept drinking his coffee. Mycroft picked a pen up from the tray as he turned to the crossword. Greg put his mug down and Mycroft lifted an arm to let him curl up against his chest.

“I know eight across. That’s an antelope,” Greg said proudly.

Mycroft chuckled and filled it in. He worked swiftly, barely pausing over answers. “You’ll know three down,” he said.

Greg looked at the clue. “Oh yeah. Um. Oh that’s Napoleon.” Greg laughed. “Your knowledge really is useful.”

Mycroft chuckled as he filled in the answer. His penmanship was immaculate, with curved strokes on every letter. Greg turned his head to kiss his chest. Mycroft drank some of his coffee and then completed the last clues, setting the paper down on the side. Greg finished his coffee.

“Shall we have that shower?” Mycroft asked. “If you’d like to use the bathroom first, I took the liberty of putting a spare toothbrush on the side of the sink for you.”

Greg looked at him and smiled. “You’re a lifesaver.” He got out of the bed, stretching. He felt Mycroft’s eyes on his body and took a little longer than strictly necessary to pick his boxers up and walk into the en-suite.

He brushed his teeth and called out to Mycroft he was ready for a shower. The other man joined him in the bathroom a moment later, turning the water on. Greg’s eyes ran over his body, his cock half hard, as he slipped his dressing gown off and stepped in. Greg pulled his boxers down and joined him under the hot spray.

They kissed lightly for a moment before Mycroft reached for the shampoo. “Turn around,” he said, pouring some out into his palm. Greg pressed his hands against the cold tiles and tilted his head back as Mycroft rubbed it in. Greg groaned as his fingers massaged his scalp. He remembered when they’d done it in the bath. It was under much better circumstances this time.

He stepped back under the water and washed the soap out. “C’mon,” Greg said. “Your turn.”

Mycroft smiled and turned around. Greg eyes gazed over his back, those scars, fucking hell, and poured the shampoo into his hands. Mycroft sighed contentedly as Greg’s hands found his head and rubbed in the soap, taking his sweet time over it. His chest brushed against Mycroft’s back as they stood together, and his cock twitched in response.

Mycroft turned and washed his hair, then tugged Greg closer to him. They kissed leisurely, surrounded by water and steam. Mycroft’s hand wrapped around Greg’s cock and Greg did likewise. They stroked in time with one another, luxuriating in lazy kisses.

Lost in Mycroft’s mouth, Greg groaned in delight, moving his hand more firmly against his cock. Mycroft increased the speed in response. Greg’s knees shook as he got close, dropping his head onto Mycroft’s shoulder. He came first, letting out a soft moan. He kept his hand moving on Mycroft’s cock, brushing his thumb against the head. Mycroft gasped, leaning against the wall as he spilled over Greg’s fingers.

They each breathed hard, kissing once more before cleaning themselves under the spray. Mycroft handed Greg the shower gel and he quickly washed himself and Mycroft, savouring the feel of his body, before stepping out.

He wrapped a towel around himself and held another out for Mycroft as he turned the shower off and walked out. Mycroft smiled and started to dry himself. Greg wrapped the towel around his waist. He caught himself staring at Mycroft, grinning as he admired his body.

Mycroft chuckled, kissing his cheek as he wandered back into the bedroom to get dressed. Greg followed him. “What were you thinking for breakfast?” Greg asked.

“There are some croissants in the cupboard.”

Greg nodded. “I’ll sort it while you get dressed.” He put Mycroft’s dressing gown on, standing in the doorway as he watched Mycroft pull some underwear on. Another day, he would definitely stand and watch Mycroft get dressed, but for now, he wandered into the kitchen.

He boiled the kettle, and found the croissants, putting four into the oven. He hunted around in the fridge for jam and butter - real butter, none of the Flora crap he had in his own fridge - and took out some plates. He lay the table for them both, smiling at the domesticity of it. Mycroft joined him a few minutes later, wrapping his arms around his waist and kissing the side of his neck.

Greg grinned. “Hello.” Mycroft continued to kiss his neck and Greg laughed, pouring their coffees.

Mycroft took them to the table while Greg took the croissants out and put them onto their plates. Mycroft smiled as Greg sat down across from him. “This is wonderful,” he said, beginning to butter his croissants.

Greg grinned and did the same. “So, how we getting to the museum then?”

“I thought we’d take the car,” Mycroft said.

“I didn’t think you were a tube kind of person, I admit,” Greg laughed.

“I haven’t taken the tube in 10 years.”

“You’re lucky,” Greg said, eating his croissant. “Wish I could say the same.”

They both sat and enjoyed their breakfast while Mycroft scrolled through his phone. Greg stood up and cleared his plate and cup away before kissing the top of Mycroft’s head. “I’m going to put some clothes on, then I’m ready to go when you are.” Mycroft tilted his head up and Greg gave him a soft kiss.

“I am ready as soon as you are.”

Greg smiled and wandered back to the bedroom, putting his clothes on from the day before. He took one last look around Mycroft’s bedroom. Mycroft had already made the bed and cleared everything away. He wanted to be back in here sometime soon. He really hoped so.

He walked out to the living room where Mycroft was stood with his coat on, ready to leave. He held Greg’s out and he put it on. They walked down the stairs together, heading out to the car. Mycroft put his phone in his pocket. “I promise I will only answer this if there’s an emergency,” he said.

Greg smiled at him. “It’s alright. I know what it’s like.”

Mycroft reached over and stroked his knee.

They arrived at Greg’s flat and he jogged up the stairs quickly to get changed. He checked himself in the mirror and put on some aftershave.

He rejoined Mycroft in the car and they drove to The Natural History Museum, Mycroft’s hand enclosed in his on the seat between them. Mycroft was making small-talk with the driver, asking about his children and his wife while Greg watched London pass by outside the window.

Eventually they arrived outside the large yellow-bricked building. “It contains some 70 million specimens,” Mycroft murmured as they looked at it. “It was opened in 1881.”

Greg grinned at got out of the car, smiling as Mycroft emerged gracefully on the other side, carrying an umbrella. He opened it out and they walked close to one another, sheltering from the rain underneath it.

“We’ll go to the cloakroom first,” Mycroft said as they walked up the steps into the building. Greg grinned and looked up at the ceiling in astonishment as he walked in. The lobby area was huge, with a large dinosaur in the middle.

“Meet Dippy,” Mycroft smiled, touching Greg’s lower back and leading him towards it. “He is a skeleton cast, unveiled in 1905.”

Greg grinned and walked towards it, admiring the size of it. “Huge.”

“Yes. When I was a child, my father brought me here. I must have been eight or nine at the time. Dippy was the first thing I saw, the same as every visitor. I sat here for a good half an hour, on the floor, just here.” He led Greg to a spot just underneath the dinosaur’s neck. “I sat here, staring at him, until my father told me there was more to see. I could have spent all day with Dippy.”

Greg smiled at him before looking up at the long neck. “He must have been massive to you.”

“It was the most extraordinary thing I’d ever seen. I read about dinosaurs before we came here, but I didn’t anticipate the size. Of course, the shape of Dippy has changed over the years as the understanding of dinosaurs has improved. In the 1960s, the neck was raised to a horizontal position. It was only in 1993 that the tail was repositioned to curve over visitors’ heads.”

Greg grinned. “See. I’m loving this trip already. You’re the best tour guide in the world.”

Mycroft chuckled. “There are people here with far more expertise than I can claim to have.”

“Yeah, but are they as sexy?” Greg murmured, walking past him to pick a map up from one of the stands. He glanced up and and grinned when he saw Mycroft’s slight blush. Greg handed him the map. “I guess you know where everything is already, but you can take charge of the map anyway.”

Mycroft began to lead him through the Central Hall and towards the cafe. They approached a desk where Mycroft handed over his coat and umbrella. Greg did the same, glad Mycroft knew this existed so he didn’t have to bother with carrying it around all day.

Mycroft led them the way they came before walking to a room to the side of Dippy. “And here are the dinosaurs,” he said. “This exhibit covers 160 million years.”

Greg looked around in amazement. “How have I lived in London all my life and never been here?” he asked, approaching a specimen he recognised from Jurassic Park. He read the description of the dinosaur, looking at it. “When did people start discovering these things?” he asked.

“Dinosaurs have been known about for many years, although no one recognised their true nature. The Chinese believed they were dragon bones and documented them as such. In Europe, they were believed to be giants or other mythical creatures. Descriptions of what we understand to be dinosaurs were first made in the 16th century.”

“You seem to love it,” Greg said, walking towards another exhibit.

“Love what?” Mycroft asked.

“This. All of this. I’ve never seen you so… alive with anything before.”

Mycroft smiled a bit. “This building takes me back to being a child,” he said.

“Easier times, yeah?” Greg asked.

Mycroft nodded. “I suppose so.” Mycroft stepped beside him as they gazed at the skeleton in front of them. “I have never been here with Sherlock.”

Greg glanced at him. “No?”

“Sherlock was a difficult child.” Mycroft placed his hands on the barrier in front of them. “He struggled with his mind in a way I never did. Where I was quiet he was loud and occasionally aggressive. He found it difficult to control the amount of data streaming through his head. I used to talk to him about dinosaurs. It calmed him. We never came here together. I’m glad of that.” He frowned, looking down at his hands.

Greg put one hand down on the barrier, placing his little finger over Mycroft’s. “It’s your alone place,” he murmured.

Mycroft nodded. “This is where I store my thoughts.”

“Your own mind palace,” Greg said, realising.

“I suppose you could call it that,” Mycroft agreed. “It’s the quietest place I’ve ever known.” Greg stepped a fraction closer so their arms brushed together. Mycroft looked at him. “This is my favourite place in the world.”

“Thank you for sharing it with me,” Greg said softly.

Mycroft smiled a bit. “Follow me. There is a moving tyrannosaurs rex through here.”

Greg smiled and they walked past the crowds of people together, heading towards the moving dinosaur exhibit, where an animatronic model was protecting her eggs. As Greg watched it, Mycroft’s arm snaked around his waist. Greg smiled at him and Mycroft opened the map out.

“We should visit the fossils here. And the minerals gallery is quite impressive. Although, not particularly interesting. We shan’t bother with that today.”

“And the archetrop.”

“Archaeopteryx,” Mycroft corrected, smiling.

Greg grinned. “Yeah, I want to see that. Whatever it is.”

“Would you like me to explain now, or shall we wait until we get there?”

“Let’s wait. It’ll make more sense if I can see it.”

They walked through the last half of the dinosaur exhibit, with Mycroft providing fascinating insights into each one they passed. Greg couldn’t help himself but listen to every word. Whether it was economics, politics or giant lizards, he wanted to hear every word that left Mycroft’s mouth.

They walked through to the exhibit of fossilised remains of dinosaurs which used to live in water. “This one’s like the Loch Ness Monster then,” Greg laughed as he looked at one display. “It’s a lot bigger than I expected actually.”

Mycroft smiled and stepped beside him. “This is another place where my father left me sitting on the floor. He took a seat on those benches with a newspaper and I sat and stared at the fossils.”

Greg laughed. “The visit took all day, didn’t it?”

“And the majority of the following day,” Mycroft admitted. “You must think it all rather trivial.”

“Trivial? No. I think it’s brilliant. When we did trips with the home, it was just to parks and stuff. To be honest, I probably wouldn’t have been interested in visiting museums then. Too boring. But with you. Well. Different story. Hey, tell me about this one.”

“I believe it’s an Ichthyosaurs.”

“I like the ones which end in ‘-saurus’ the most. Didn’t you ever want to be a scientist?”

Mycroft shook his head. “I liked the romanticism of it. I think I would have lost the love of it if I studied it every day.”

They continued to walk through the museum, past the stuffed animals and back through to the Central Hall.

“So, what’s your favourite thing in this place? Archaeopteryl, obviously.”

“Archaeopteryx,” Mycroft corrected again.

“Archaeopteryx. Right, I’ll get it next time.”

“And the coelacanth,” Mycroft said. “The living fossil.”

“Living fossil? Why?”

“It was once only known from fossils, and thought to have gone extinct at least 70 million years ago. It was rediscovered – living – in 1938. And it has hardly changed in tens of millions of years.”

“Sounds a bit like the Commander at the Yard,” Greg muttered, and Mycroft laughed as they walked up the stairs together.

They approached a small room together for the Museum’s treasures collection.

“This is the most extraordinary collection of items,” Mycroft informed him as they walked through. “Charles Darwin’s pigeons, the first edition of On The Origin Of Species, a dodo skeleton, Alfred Russel Wallace’s insects. And of course, Archaeopteryx.”

Mycroft led him to the stone, with a bird-like, dinosaur-like skeleton inside. Greg looked down at it. “So. This is the thing you were really excited about?”

“This fossil is the proof of evolution.”

Greg raised his eyebrows. “This one thing?”

“Well, not just the one thing, but an important one. It was discovered in 1861, three years after Darwin printed his theory on evolution.”

Mycroft stood behind him, and Greg could feel the heat of his body transferring through the back of his shirt. He shivered as Mycroft’s low voice came close to his ear. “It has feathers like a bird, teeth and claws and a bony tail like a dinosaur. It was first classified as a bird, and that in itself was remarkable since no birds were known from so far back in time. It was then suggested it was the half-way point, where dinosaur became bird.”

Greg looked down at it. “So it’s a turning point?”

“Absolutely.”

Greg nodded and turned around to face him. “Alright, I’m impressed.” Mycroft smiled and, to Greg’s delighted surprise, kissed him. Greg smiled against his mouth, taking hold of one of his hands. “That was nice.”

“The need to kiss you just came over me,” Mycroft said, entwining their fingers.

“Well, if Archaeoptop makes you do that, I’m a big fan of Archaeoptop.”

“Archaeopteryx.”

Greg grinned. “I’m just playing with you now.”

Mycroft laughed and they held hands as they walked around the rest of the room. Greg stood with Mycroft as long as he wanted at each exhibit, even when his eyes began to wander around the room to see what else they could look at. Somehow staring at the same pigeons for five minutes was fascinating to Mycroft. To Greg, they were just pigeons, whether Charles Darwin had collected them or not.

Greg was glad it was a quiet day at the museum. Not because holding hands with Mycroft in public bothered him in any way, but as a man who had spent the past 17 years effectively entirely straight, it was a very quick turnaround to be outing himself this quickly.

He’d happily hold his hand and kiss him in public though. The fact Mycroft was even willing to – wanted to – was a cause of great surprise. But he didn’t want to deal with the stares from confused children or begrudging parents. That they could be in this public space in the quiet, just the two of them, surrounded by some of Mycroft’s favourite things in the world, was fantastic.

They un-joined hands as they left the room, but Mycroft’s hand remained at the small of his back as they walked along the stairs to look down at the full expanse of the Central Hall.

“Thank you,” Greg murmured. “I’ve really enjoyed this.”

“Thank you for letting me show you.”

“And so your mind… palace thing. Do you just wander around in your head and find the information you need?”

“Of course,” Mycroft said as though it was perfectly obvious. “It isn’t the only place. I have separate buildings for separate items I need to recall, but the Natural History Museum is my favourite. I’ve left the things I need to remember about you in the same room as Archaeopteryx.”

Greg turned and stared at him. Mycroft had put his Greg-memories in the same place as Archaeopteryx? That was huge. He wasn’t sure quite how huge, but it felt pretty important. Greg could only say ‘thank you’ and continue to look around at the grand building.

After several minutes they walked down the stairs, taking another five minutes with Dippy and three minutes with the coelacanth, before collecting their coats and then leaving the museum. They got into Mycroft’s car, where Greg sat himself directly beside him.

“Pub lunch?” Greg asked.

Mycroft nodded and told the driver to pick the best place based on the traffic conditions. He drew Greg into a kiss on the backseat.

Greg leaned against him during the journey as Mycroft returned to working on his phone. Greg put his hand on his thigh and just savoured the feeling of him being there. He thought he worked hard, but Mycroft was in another league.

Eventually they arrived at the Newman Arms and Greg followed Mycroft in. Mycroft bought them a brandy and an ale and they took a seat beside a fire, their legs touching beneath the table.

Greg smiled over at him and sipped his drink. “You should tell Sherlock how you built a mind palace thing, you know? He’d really benefit from it.”

“I’ve tried before. But you know Sherlock. Trying to convince him to do something good for himself is completely impossible.”

“Yeah, I know.” Greg looked down at the menu. “I’m going to have the steak and kidney pie. What do you want?”

“I’ll have the chicken and leak, I think.” Greg stood and Mycroft held his arm out. “Let me.”

“No, come on,” Greg said. “I can afford this place. You can pay for our next posh night out.”

Mycroft laughed and let him go. Greg smiled to himself as he walked to the bar. A big conversation about money and how much they earned was not really a conversation he fancied having. So that Mycroft was willing to let him pay for things – albeit cheaper things – was a relief.

He paid for their meals before walking back over.

Mycroft looked up from his phone. “Polonium-210 has been found at a restaurant in Mayfair. That’s the radioactive element believed to have killed Alexander Litvinenko.”

Greg raised his eyebrows. “Scary.”

“Quite. The staff will be fine, I’m sure.”

Greg sat back in his chair, looking around. Mycroft was so bloody interesting. And it was great. But how the hell was Greg ever supposed to keep him interested? “I have a question,” Greg said. “Which country has the most wild camels?”

Mycroft tilted his head. “I don’t understand why you’re asking.”

“It’s my useless fact of the day.”

Mycroft laughed and pressed their legs back together. “I don’t know, Greg, which country has the most wild camels?”

“Australia.”

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. “And why have you got a useless fact of the day?”

“I’ve started having them emailed to me.”

“Why?”

“Well, y’know. For if you start getting bored of me rabbiting on about work, I can come up with something interesting to say.” He took a long swig of his beer.

Mycroft smiled across at him. “Greg, I find you constantly fascinating.”

“And hopefully you will in the future with Greg’s useless facts of the day.”

“Greg, what’s the problem?”

Greg shook his head. “Nothing. I don’t really know where that came from. Ignore me.”

“I find we have very pleasant conversations. You can talk about anything you want. Football, work, your life.” Mycroft bit his lip. “Have you been holding it back?”

Greg shrugged. “A bit. Maybe. Not on purpose. But you don’t exactly want to listen to me chat about football.”

“Don’t I?”

“Well, do you?”

Mycroft reached across and touched his arm. “If I gave you any reason to think I wasn’t interested in what you have to say then I apologise.”

“No, no, it’s nothing like that. I’m just a bit boring compared to you. I mean I could listen to you talk all day.”

“I’d much prefer it if you were talking with me.”

Greg rested his fingers over Mycroft’s. “I’m being an idiot.”

“Yes.”

Greg laughed. “Cheers, thanks for that.”

“A charming idiot. Does that help?”

Greg wrinkled his nose. “Maybe a bit.”

“I’d enjoy listening to you talk about anything you choose to. With you, I think I can talk about work but also everything else as well. Talk to me about football, Greg.”

Greg laughed. “I don’t really want to talk about football.”

Mycroft smiled playfully. “Well, now you really are being an idiot. I don’t allow football discussions very often.”

Greg grinned. “Your idiot though, right?” Mycroft opened his mouth and then closed it again. Greg widened his eyes as he realised what he’d just said. He started speaking quickly. “So, Australia and camels, the reason for that is-“

“-Yes, Greg.”

Greg swallowed. “Yes, what?”

He saw Mycroft’s shoulders fall a bit. “I know about the camels.”

“Oh. Right. Yeah, course you do,” Greg muttered bitterly. So not even his fun random facts were new information.

Mycroft leaned back in his seat. “No, that wasn’t…” He rubbed his head. “Just give me a moment.”

Greg nodded and had a long gulp of beer.

Mycroft looked up as the barman brought over their food. “Thank you,” he murmured, turning his attention to his lunch.

Oh Greg, you absolute fool, Greg thought. What did you have to go and say ‘ _your_  idiot’ for? Stupid attachment-implying words.

“Greg, being half of a partnership is-”

Greg held his hand up. “It’s fine. I get it. Don’t worry. I shouldn’t have said it like that, it was stupid. You’re right, I’m am idiot.”

“I am afraid of hurting you.”

Greg shook his head. “Don’t be. I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine right now.”

“Great observation,” Greg muttered.

“Why are we fighting?”

“Because we’re practically a couple, damn it, and whether you like it or not and that’s what couples do.” Greg winced. Shit. Temper, Greg… Why the hell do you always just blurt stuff out?

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. “Very well,” he said.

“Very well?”

Mycroft sprinkled some pepper on his lunch. “Very well. We’re a couple and that’s what couples do. Although I wouldn’t mind if we put an end to this rather pointless argument very soon.”

“You what?”

Mycroft sighed. “What now, Greg?”

“You just said we’re a couple.”

“Yes, I believe I did. You said we were practically a couple, but I feel my description of actually being a couple was far more accurate.”

“Y’what?”

“Well, is there anything other couples do which we’re not doing? Because if there is then please let me know and I’ll remedy that situation.”

Greg started to smile. “We’re a couple?”

“Are we not?”

“I guess we are.”

“Excellent. Greg are you going to eat?”

Greg laughed and looked at him. “Why don’t you start before me for a change?”

“I’m creating a relationship tradition. That’s what people do, isn’t it?”

Greg leaned across and touched his cheek. “I don’t know.”

Mycroft smiled. “Nor do I. Please eat now.”

Greg laughed and started to cut into his food, shaking his head in disbelief. “How long have we even been in a relationship for?”

“Months. I’m fairly sure it’s been months.”

“You could have told me, you know.”

“I thought it went without saying.”

Greg laughed. “No, Mycroft, it doesn’t.”

“Very well. Greg, will you be in a relationship with me?”

Greg grinned. “Hm. Let me think about that.”

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. “You are a pain.”

“I know.”

They both laughed and ate their lunch, occasionally looking at each other and breaking into more hapless laughter. They finished their drinks and headed for the car. There was an unusual shyness in the way they looked at each other on the way back to Crusader House. A hesitance fell between them.

Greg watched London pass by outside the window while Mycroft sat on his phone. He followed Mycroft up the stairs in silence, trying to think of something worthwhile saying. They’d just had a pretty life-changing conversation, and everything else felt fairly trivial in comparison.

So when Mycroft closed the door and kissed him straight on the lips with no tentativeness to speak of, Greg couldn’t help but feel strangely reassured that this was the beginning of something.

Mycroft took his hand and led him to the sofa, lying down and pulling Greg on top of him. They kissed like teenagers, snogging desperately as though they’d never done it before. Mycroft’s hands roamed over Greg’s body above his clothes, feeling his shoulders, his back and his backside. And Greg just kissed him heatedly, ignoring the hardness between his legs because he was content enough to do this for hours.

Mycroft sighed into his mouth. Greg sat up a bit and grinned, licking his lips.

Mycroft’s phone rang. They both looked at each other in frustration as Mycroft took it from his pocket. Greg sat up and brushed down his clothes.

“What?” Mycroft asked irritably. “Oh good lord, is this office run by incompetents?” He stood up and began walking to his office. “It’s my day off. No, actually. What happened? I’m spending the day with my-” He shut the door before Greg could hear the end of that sentence.

Spending the day with his… boyfriend? Lover? Partner?

Oh holy shit, they actually were together. He was in a relationship with that man.

Greg laughed and shook his head. And it had been so easy. He thought it wouldn’t be but it was, it was all so simple.

Mycroft walked back out. “Greg, I’m sorry, I have to go to work for a few hours. Please stay here, I shouldn’t be long. There are some takeaway menus in the kitchen. Choose some dishes and order it for 9pm, I’ll be back by then.”

Mycroft leaned down and kissed him.

“No worries,” Greg said. “I’ll sit and read and watch TV or something.”

“Good. Because I have plans for you later.” Mycroft smiled at him and walked over to the other side of the room to get his coat. Greg watched him go and sighed, stretching out along the sofa.

He spent the next few hours doing just what he’d promised. He read a bit of Bram Stoker’s Dracula. He watched some television, curling up under a blanket. At 8pm, he began to look through the food menus.

From the table, his phone beeped and Greg picked it up.

 

MESSAGES Sherlock Holmes  
8.21pm: Help.

 

It beeped again just as he opened the message.

 

MESSAGES Sherlock Holmes  
8.21pm: Help. Flat.

 

Greg felt his heart begin to race in panic and he stood up, going to the door and grabbing his coat.

 

MESSAGES Sherlock Holmes  
8.22pm: Now.

 

He ran out of the door and down the stairs.

 

MESSAGES Sherlock Holmes  
8.22pm: Please.

 

Please. Sherlock never said please. Oh holy shit. Greg quickly typed out a message.

 

MESSAGES  
8.23: Coming!!

 

MESSAGES Sherlock Holmes  
8.23pm: Help.

 

Greg jumped into the car and drove as fast as he could towards Sherlock’s flat. 


	33. How Do We Write The End?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I continue to be overwhelmed and stunned by how supportive you guys are.   
> Jaeh, Novels, JustLookFrightenedAndScuttle, vanya, artemisdecibal, MoonRiver, KingTaran, WhiskeySally, Iridescentkiss, GoldenKhaleesi, GoldenKhaleesi, OwlinAutumn, mycroftson and jill, this is for you. You all just pick out little things which make me smile, blush and squee in equal measure.  
> I was struggling with this chapter, but reading your comments really gave me a final push tonight to get it out there.

_January, 2007_

Greg ran up the stairs to Sherlock’s flat and pounded furiously on the door with one hand while he tried to fish his keys out of his coat pocket with the other. The key missed the lock the first time, his hands shaking, but he finally managed to get it open.

At first he didn’t see Sherlock and called his name, but then noticed his foot sticking off the end of the sofa. And the needle lying on the floor.

Greg knelt down beside him. He was pale, his lips almost blue as he struggled to breathe. Greg shook him. Sherlock’s eyes opened, his pupils were barely pinpricks.

Greg wrapped his arms around him and eased him down onto the floor. “Shh, don’t speak, just look at me, Sherlock. Just keep looking at me.” Greg took one deep breath. He cleared his head. He put him in the recovery position as quickly as he could. He grabbed his phone and dialled 999.

He hardly knew what he was saying to the operator on the line. He held Sherlock’s hand in his. He felt his forehead, for what, he didn’t know. He whispered to him to hang on. “No, him, not you, sorry,” he said to the operator.

“The ambulance is on its way.”

“Tell it to hurry.”

“Lestrade,” Sherlock whispered but Greg shook his head.

“No, don’t talk, alright. Just keep looking at me and breathing. Just keep breathing, mate.” He slapped Sherlock’s cheek. “C’mon. Look at me. Don’t you dare fucking stop looking at me y’hear?”

“It was so loud,” Sherlock gasped.

“I know. Mate. C’mon, Sherlock. Look at me. Look at me!” He grabbed Sherlock’s jaw and turned his face to his. “Don’t you dare conk out on me now. You’ve got too many bloody cases to solve. You and me. Kirkcudbright. We’re gonna get it. I’ll take it off Dimmock and we’ll figure it out. You know we will. Sherlock! Sherlock!”

“Step back please, sir.” Greg scrambled away, breathing hard as the paramedics attending to Sherlock. He stared at them. “Do you know what he took?” one of the women asked.

“Heroin. Heroin. Bloody hell, Sherlock, you stupid bugger.” Greg rubbed his face. He turned away from the paramedics. And then looked back again. “C’mon. Sherlock. Please.” He leaned back against the wall. He stared, barely seeing.

They put Sherlock onto a stretcher. Greg followed, quickly locking the flat up. Sherlock was unconscious now. He rang Mycroft as he followed them down the stairs.

Mycroft answered. “Greg. What’s wrong?”

“Sherlock. He. Heroin and overdosed and. I’m getting in the ambulance with him now, y’just need to…”

“I’m on my way.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m on my way,” Mycroft repeated and hung up.

Greg took a seat and watched the paramedics as they worked. He hardly took in what was happening. He just sat and stared and curled his fingers in Sherlock’s shoulder.

“Please wake up,” he whispered.

 

* * *

 

Greg stood in the hallway at the hospital, watching on as doctors worked frantically trying to revive Sherlock or give him breathing equipment or whatever else they were doing. He just watched uselessly, dazed.

He looked up when he heard footsteps and Mycroft strode towards him and straight into his arms. Greg closed his eyes and squeezed him tightly. If he held on long enough then maybe it would be okay.

“How is he?” Mycroft whispered against his neck.

“Unconscious still. Far as I can tell.”

They clung to each other. It was the only thing in the world Greg knew how to do. He didn’t have the words, and he didn’t have any medical knowledge to explain a single damn thing.

Mycroft let go of him and brushed his lips against his cheek. “I’m sorry you had to be there.”

Greg shook his head. “At least he contacted someone.”

Mycroft nodded and held his hand as he watched the doctors work. “I need to call our parents.” He looked at his pocket watch and sighed. “They’ll be line dancing.” He kissed Greg lightly. “I’ll just be outside.”

Greg nodded, squeezed his hand once, and watched him go. He leaned against the wall and sighed. He knew from the start that Sherlock would be nothing but trouble. He knew all along that the man was only going to cause him pain.

He rubbed his face. He’d been at the hospital for him twice in almost two years. He should have seen him more over Christmas. Tried to help him out with that mind palace-y thing, even when it made no sense. For God’s sake, Sherlock had opened up to him. Okay, he opened up in a drug-induced insane way, but he put in the effort, and that was so un-Sherlock-like but Greg had just let him leave in the morning.

And if anything happened to him, how could he ever forgive himself? He’d promised himself that he would get Sherlock drug-free because he was a genius and a potentially great man. Flawed man. But with a great mind.

He looked at the door where he could make out Mycroft’s shadow through the glass panel where he stood breaking the news to his parents.

He’d just have to be a rock to that man. Because he was the one who ended a sentence with “I’m spending the day with my-”. My something. My someone.

And it both terrified and thrilled Greg that he was someone’s ‘my something’ again.

Greg stood up straight when Mycroft walked through the door and he held a hand out to him. Mycroft took it and they both looked at the consultant as he walked out to meet them.

“You’re family?” he asked, looking at Greg.

Greg tilted his head towards Mycroft. “He’s the brother.”

The consultant nodded and turned to Mycroft. Greg squeezed his fingers.

“We got him here quickly, which is obviously critical. We don’t think he went without oxygen to the brain for very long - if at all - so I’m not too concerned about brain damage.”

“I’ve been here before, Doctor,” Mycroft said. “I know how it works. What’s the likelihood of him waking?”

“Like I said, we got him here quickly. He is still unconscious and we’re monitoring his breathing closely. You can go and see him now.”

Mycroft nodded. “Thank you.”

The doctor left them. Greg gently tugged Mycroft’s hand and led him through to Sherlock’s bedside. Mycroft took a seat and Greg pulled another chair around to sit beside him.

“When did this happen last time?” Greg asked, looking at him.

“Seven years ago.” Mycroft frowned. “This is the forth time he has ended up in hospital, but the second time he has been unconscious. I wish I could say with some certainty this will be the last. Assuming he wakes up, of course.”

“He’ll wake up. You know Sherlock. He’s made of tough stuff.”

“Mm.”

“If you need anything, shout,” Greg told him.

Mycroft looked at him. “It would be nice if you could stay for a while.”

Greg nodded. “I’m here as long as you want me to be.”

Mycroft dropped his head onto Greg’s shoulder. “Thank you.”

Greg wrapped an arm around him and they sat together, just listening to the beeping of the machines. Greg kissed his hair and watched Sherlock’s chest rising and falling, the steady movement reassuring him.

They sat like that for a long time.

Out of the blue, Mycroft began to speak. “I left university when I was 21 and went straight into the security services. Four years later, Sherlock started university, the same year I went to the USA. I should have realised how hard he would find the experience with his inability to make people like him. You are a very rare entity, Greg. Sherlock tolerates you and not only that, you’re willing to put up with him also. And you encourage him. But still, with all those new opportunities, he still returns to heroin. I despair.”

Greg leaned over and kissed his cheek. “We’ll get him through it.”

“If he ever wakes up.”

“He’ll wake up, Mycroft.”

“I wish I shared your confidence. And even if he does wake. What then? He only brings pain to himself and those around him. I wish I didn’t care.”

“You don’t mean that,” Greg said.

“I do.”

Greg shook his head. “No one wants to feel nothing.” Mycroft stayed quiet, but he did at least rub his thumb against Greg’s knuckles. “My stomach’s rumbling. Let me go get us some food, yeah?”

Mycroft nodded.

“What do you want?” Greg asked.

“I don’t.”

“You have to eat something.”

Mycroft sighed. “Goodness knows what this hospital considers appropriate food. I’ll have whatever it is you come across for yourself.” Greg squeezed his hand before letting go and kissing his forehead. He walked to the door. “Greg?”

Greg turned around. “Yeah?”

“And a coffee?”

Greg forced a smile and nodded. “I’ll be as quick as I can.” He left the room and followed the signs for the hospital cafe. It had stopped serving hot food several hours ago, but there was a selection of sandwiches and fruit available. He bought those, along with a selection of newspapers and picked up some coffee from the machine.

Mycroft was sat just where he’d left him. “I’m sorry it’s cheap coffee,” Greg said as he handed a paper cup and sandwich over. “It was all I could get.”

“Thank you.”

Greg looked over at him. He seemed so detached. Like there was nothing there behind his eyes. It scared Greg to see how lost he looked. Observing, but not really digesting the scene in front of him. And all Greg could do was sit beside him and hope his presence made some sort of difference. He just hoped he was some form of comfort.

“I was in America when Sherlock first began taking drugs,” Mycroft said as he finished his sandwich. “I think it’s fair to say he was hardly on my radar at the time. I was involved in my first major national security threat. We were working with the Americans on the problem.”

Greg nodded and squeezed his hand.

“We devised a plan. It didn’t succeed as it should have done. Someone made a costly error and a CIA agent paid for it with his life. The agent and I had an intimate relationship.”

Greg turned to him. He was stunned. Mycroft had been a relationship and the bloke had… died? No wonder this had all been so bloody difficult for him. “You were together?”

“Not precisely. We were close. But it was very early days.”

“How early?” Greg asked.

“Almost two months. But I found it difficult when I returned to the UK. He was the kind of man people gravitated towards.” Mycroft pressed his lips together and looked over at Sherlock. “I didn’t realise what Sherlock was doing until he ended up in hospital. I promised myself I wouldn’t make that mistake again.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“I should have known. Sherlock was 11 when I went to university, and he struggled. He found it difficult to make friends. And when I returned home, he’d hardly speak to me. He was furious I left him. He finds social interaction difficult, but he does like to bounce his ideas around.”

Greg smiled a bit. “That does sound familiar.”

“We’re running out of options, Greg. We’re not going to be able to cure him of this addiction.”

“Shut up,” Greg said.

Mycroft turned and frowned at him. “I’m sorry?”

“I just mean stop being so damn negative. He’s going to wake up. And we’re not out of options. We’ll figure something out. He’s been off heroin for a while, yeah? So we need to find new ways of sorting his brain out. He’ll be fine.”

“You see too much good in the world.”

“And I don’t get why you don’t. You see the same bad stuff as I do every day. But there’s good there too. You know there is.”

“I have been here far too often with my brother.”

“Yeah. I know. I’ve only been in his life two years and I’ve seen it more than I like. But that doesn’t mean we stop trying. We’ll figure it out together.”

Greg looked up as the door opened and Anthea walked in with some files. “I brought these as requested, sir.” She looked at Greg. “Hi, Detective Inspector.” She gave Mycroft the files. “How is he?”

“Stable, whatever that means.”

She nodded. “Indigo is progressing as planned, sir.”

“Thank you. I require hourly updates.”

“Yes, sir. Let me know how he’s doing.” With that, she left the room.

Mycroft opened one of his folders and Greg picked up one of the newspapers. Without even asking, Mycroft handed him a pen and Greg turned to the puzzle page. He crossed one leg over the other as he began to fill in the Sudoku.

After an hour, Mycroft spoke. “I forgot to tell you I had sorted a lawyer for Dion Martin.”

Greg looked at him and reached out to squeeze his shoulder. “Thank you. That’s my first job when I get back to work. Fill in all the paperwork for that case.”

“He is in good hands,” Mycroft said, returning to his work.

Greg rolled his shoulders. “I need to stretch my legs and get another coffee. D’you want one?”

“No. Thank you.”

Greg nodded and stood up. He took a quick look at Sherlock and began to move when Mycroft’s hand touched his arm. Greg glanced at him.

Mycroft stood, and then wavered before taking hold of his hand.

“I’ve got you, alright?” Greg told him.

Mycroft nodded and Greg wrapped one arm around him. He held Mycroft to his chest, their other hands clasped together at their sides. Greg kissed his hair, just supporting him. If he broke, even just a bit, even for just one second, then Greg would be there to pick up the pieces.

He heard the noise of the door opening behind him and Greg stepped back, Mycroft’s hand still attached to his.

“Oh, Myc,” the woman murmured, and Mycroft let go of Greg’s hand to walk towards her. She was wearing a floral top with her jeans. Mycroft kissed her cheek and shook the man’s hand.

“How is he?” the man in the blue cardigan asked. Mycroft’s parents, Greg realised. He swallowed and looked down at his feet. He had no idea what they knew about his existence, let alone his relationship with their son. He realised his face was hot and flushed, and he felt like they’d just been caught having sex.

“Stable, but that’s all we know,” Mycroft said.

“Is it worse than last time?”

“Much the same.”

“Stupid boy,” Mycroft’s mother said, but Greg knew she didn’t mean it. She looked straight at Greg. Greg opened his mouth to say something (he wasn’t exactly sure what), but at that moment Mycroft turned and looked at him and held his hand out. Greg stared down at his outstretched hand before taking it and walking over.

“This is Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade,” Mycroft murmured, entwining their fingers.

Mycroft’s mother managed a smile. “I thought as much,” she said. “It’s lovely to meet you.”

Greg nodded, frowning a bit. “Likewise. I just… I wish it was under better circumstances.”

She nodded and Mycroft’s father kissed her hair as he wrapped a supportive arm around her. “Me too,” Mrs Holmes said. “You’ve been good to Sherlock, Myc tells us.”

“Mycroft,” Mycroft muttered, looking away to Sherlock.

“I don’t know,” Greg said. “I’ve tried. I don’t know how useful I’ve been.”

She nodded. “I’m assured you’ve been quite wonderful. Mycroft, I would like to speak to the doctor. Can we please find him or her?”

“Certainly,” Mycroft said. He let go of Greg’s hand. “We’ll be back shortly.”

Greg nodded and watched them walk off. Mr Holmes managed a smile and took Mycroft’s former seat, putting his files down onto the floor. “Mycroft has told us a bit about you,” he said. “How you’ve been working with Sherlock.”

Greg shrugged. “I’ve tried a bit, yeah. He’s something else. Solves pretty much all my cases. Well, the ones he’s interested in anyway.”

“I’m glad to see him do something useful. I wish Sherlock were able to live inside the world rather than staring at it from the outside.”

Greg nodded and took a seat. “Yeah. Yeah, I know. I guess I can only say we’re trying.”

“How is Mycroft?” Mr Holmes asked, turning around to look at him. “I was thrilled when Sherlock told us he was seeing someone.”

“He’s… struggling with this,” Greg said. “Before this happened, he was good.”

Mr Holmes smiled, but it hardly reached his eyes. “We couldn’t have had two more dissimilar sons. I was beginning to wonder if he’d ever find someone. I’ve never met anyone with a stronger sense of duty.”

Greg nodded, not sure what to say. He’d never really thought of Mycroft in those terms before. Like work and Sherlock were a duty, something he did because he had to, not because he wanted to. Greg took the seat beside Mr Holmes.

“I wish we were meeting under better circumstances,” Mr Holmes continued. “I had hoped Mycroft would bring you for dinner eventually.”

Greg smiled a bit. “We only admitted we were together earlier today.”

Mr Holmes laughed. “Somehow that does not surprise me. Their mother and I had around 30 dinners before she finally asked me what was going on.”

Greg smiled. “Yeah, we’ve been dancing around it for a while.”

“I only wanted these boys to be happy.” Greg glanced at him, and saw him give a wistful smile. “Perhaps we’re half-way there at last.”

“We’ll sort out Sherlock,” Greg promised. “We’ll manage.”

“I agree. When he comes through this.”

Greg nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, when he comes through this.”

Mycroft and Mrs Holmes returned 10 minutes later and Greg stood to let her have his seat.

Mycroft picked his files up off the floor and frowned at his father. He didn’t say anything. “Greg, let’s go for a walk.”

Greg nodded. “Sure.” He followed Mycroft out and they walked to the family room. They’d shared their almost kiss in this room. So much had happened since then. It was bewildering. The day and night had gone by in a blur, much the same as the year. They took a seat on one of the sofas and Mycroft winced.

“Good lord, the springs in this are dreadful.”

Greg nodded. “I know. I sat in that same seat last time we were here.” Greg held his arm out. “Come here.”

Mycroft sidled closer, leaning into his side and letting Greg hold him. Greg kissed his hair, and stroked his shoulder. He closed his eyes and sighed, just supporting Mycroft the best he could.

Greg looked down at his watch. “Right. Here’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to mine and I’ll grab a change of clothes and stuff. I think I’ve still got that black shirt you gave to me once. Sorry about that, I meant to bring it over.”

“It’s fine.”

“I’ll bring some clothes, alright?” Greg asked.

Mycroft nodded. “Thank you.”

Greg kissed him lightly. “I won’t be long.”

He stood and Mycroft looked up at him. “I’m sorry,” he said.

“What for?”

“For all of this.”

Greg shook his head. “I wouldn’t change it for anything.”

He flashed him a half smile and walked out of the room and left the hospital. He flagged down a taxi to take him to his road. He left the taxi’s meter running as he ran in and grabbed some clothes for both he and Mycroft as well as a toothbrush. He had no idea how long they’d be sat at the hospital for.

He ran back down and got into the taxi again. They drove back to the hospital.

 

* * *

 

Greg finally walked into the family room with the bag. Mycroft was stood on his phone, looking out of the window. “Increase his security now,” he said, his tone demanding. He looked at Greg. “I need to go. I need half hourly updates. It is absolutely critical.” He ended the call. “Sherlock’s awake.”

“Oh thank God,” Greg breathed out. “How long?”

“The past 15 minutes.”

“Is he-”

“His brain function seems unaffected.”

Greg nodded. “Good. That’s brilliant news.” He began to smile. He started to walk towards Mycroft but something about his face made him stop. “What’s up?”

Mycroft’s face was set in stone, his eyes looking at Greg with a hardness he didn’t recognise. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came from it for a few moments. Greg started to walk towards him but he held a hand out. “It’s over,” Mycroft said.

Greg frowned. “What? What’s over?”

“It should never have begun in the first place.”

Greg shook his head and stepped towards him. Mycroft was talking about them. That it shouldn’t… that they shouldn’t… “What? No, no, don’t do this just because you’re scared.”

“I’m not,” Mycroft said coolly.

Greg shook his head. His chest tightened. “Stop it, Mycroft. Seriously. Don’t give up on this just because Sherlock did heroin and it’s freaked you out.”

“It has nothing to do with Sherlock. I cannot give you what you want.”

Greg reached for him, but didn’t touch him. He looked at his face. There was nothing there. Like he’d turned his face into a wall. Like he’d just switched his heart off. “Mycroft. You have feelings for me for God’s sake.”

“I don’t.”

Greg felt it like daggers to his chest. “Don’t lie to me. You’ve never lied to me before. Shut up and think about this.”

“I was mistaken.”

Greg swallowed. “Don’t do this.”

“It’s over.”

“It is not over,” Greg hissed.

“Yes it is. We were stupid to have let it start in the first place.”

“Mycroft, you introduced me to your parents for God’s sake.”

“I’m aware.”

“Why are you doing this?”

“I would appreciate it if you would continue to work with Sherlock when he is well.”

“Mycroft-”

Mycroft began to walk past him and out of the door. “It’s done, Greg.”

Greg grabbed his arm and stared at him. Mycroft’s eyes flashed dark for a second and then returned to being completely unreadable. “You’re throwing away a bloody good thing here. I care about you!” Greg demanded. 

“No, Greg. I’m ending this now.”

“We’ll sort this, whatever it is-”

Mycroft pulled his arm out of his grip. “It’s over,” he snarled. “Now, stop begging. It’s pathetic.”

Greg couldn’t believe he’d just said that to him. “Who the hell do you think you are?”

“Goodbye, Greg. I will be in touch about Sherlock.” Mycroft stepped out of the door and walked back out into the corridor.

Greg just stood and watched him go. He stared at the door as it swung closed. He took a seat and frowned. And just like that. Just like he knew it would go. Mycroft Holmes had closed the door on it all. And Greg wished he could say he was surprised. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (P.S. I am so freaking sorry!! I was Absolutely Petrified of posting this chapter. You have no idea. Please keep reading! I'll give you cookies and cakes!)


	34. Falling Feels Like Flying Until You Hit The Ground

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I feel really mean, but so many of you were really supportive. Those people were: JustLookFrightenedAndScuttle, ShipsIntoDarkness, KingTaran, ahutchga1972, Jaeh, ivefoundmygoldfish (melonpanparade), Novels (have a giant cookie!), vanya, artemisdecibal, WhiskeySally, cosmicsoup221b, Velma, Mice, OwlinAutumn, Jill, kypip, Tappy33, MisplacedLonelyHeartsAd, and oxana. Gosh that was a list beyond my wildest imaginings. I love you all!

_January, 2007_

Greg wasn’t sure how long he stood in that room at the hospital staring out of the window. He felt a strange numbness. How could something they’d built together after so long be destroyed in a two minute conversation?

It was bewildering too. Because there was no way Mycroft had made up how he felt. So how had it changed so suddenly? Something must have happened. Greg supposed the happening was probably Sherlock and Mycroft’s sense of ‘duty’. Perhaps he said something when he woke up.

Greg wanted to go and see Sherlock and see for himself just how alive he was. He wanted to call him a prat and tell him he’ll see him at the Yard soon. But instead he took a slow journey back home on the night bus, reading the night’s Evening Standard and questioning how in so few hours his life had turned around and slapped him on the face.

He collapsed onto his bed. He was still carrying the bag containing Mycroft’s shirt. He groaned and rubbed his face.

He felt a strange sense of loss he was not expecting to feel. A sense of failure tinged with doubt over what exactly he might have done wrong. Had he said something he shouldn’t have?

And it meant their one day of official relationship had to have been the shortest relationship Greg had ever had.

The morning after Mycroft left him, Greg dropped him a text.

 

MESSAGES  
9.23am: Just checking you’re  
ok. 

 

He visited Sherlock in the afternoon, bringing grapes he knew the other man probably wouldn’t eat and a stack of books from Sherlock’s flat, hoping he hadn’t read all of them already.

Sherlock looked up from the bed. “Mycroft ended it.”

“Yeah. He did,” Greg said, folding his arms as he took a seat. “What were you thinking taking drugs again?”

“I failed to take into account that the time without heroin had reduced my tolerance. I took my usual dose but it had a surprising effect.”

“Surprising… surprising effect?” Greg spluttered. “Sherlock, you nearly died!”

“Yes, but I didn’t.”

“That’s not the point.”

“So, when are we getting the Kirkcudbright case back from Dimmock? You should never have handed it over in the first place.”

Greg frowned at him. “Sherlock. We need to talk about this.”

“I got fed up and took heroin. I took too much. Look, I’m alive. I’m breathing unassisted. It’s boring. Case. Give me.”

“Sherlock,” Greg warned.

“What now?” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I really didn’t expect it would actually be better when you and Mycroft were together. But at least then I got the lecture once not twice.”

Greg sighed. “Fine. Fine, I won’t lecture you. I’ll just give you grapes.” He put them down on the table and Sherlock raised his eyebrows. “At least pretend you ate them, alright?”

“What point is there in that?”

“It’ll make me feel better.”

“You and Mycroft have such a power complex,” Sherlock muttered.

“Can we just not talk about Mycroft right now?”

“I thought you’d never ask.”

Greg shook his head. “I don’t get it, Sherlock. We were fine, and then right out of the blue he just-”

“-Oh God, will someone please just inject me with heroin and spare me this inane babble.”

“Y’know, you scared the bloody life out of me. I thought you were going to die. So, actually, you should listen to me talking right now.”

“I’d rather not,” Sherlock muttered.

“We all do things we’d rather not do, Sherlock, that’s how the world works.”

“Not with me. I do what I want.”

“Aren’t you the special one.”

“Quite true. Lestrade, give me a case or go.”

“I don’t have a case for you right now.”

Sherlock pointed at the door. “Then I suggest you leave. I don’t feel like talking to you.”

Greg glared at him but stood up and pushed the grapes towards him. “Eat those. Every single one.”

He caught Sherlock rolling his eyes and stormed out of the room. Even when he was this pissed off at him, he wasn’t truly angry. God, Sherlock was annoying.

Greg went to the shops and stocked his fridge. He spent the rest of the day at home, watching drivel on the television. He checked his phone before he went to bed at 11.47pm. Mycroft hadn’t messaged him back.

He got into bed and switched off the light. He missed him already. And it wasn’t the sex he missed. It was having him there next to him. It was hearing about what the United Nations had been up to that day or what other ridiculous world-saving meeting Mycroft had found himself in. It was making him smile - that one genuine smile that took a while to find, but when it emerged, it was like nothing else in the world.

And all that was done now.

Stubborn or not, Greg wasn’t going to beg. He wasn’t going to plead with him to take him back. If Mycroft Holmes said it was over, then it was over. And that would have to be just fine. 

 

* * *

 

 Two weeks later, and Sherlock was out of hospital and being his usual impatient and petulant self. He had turned up at the Yard every day for the past week, picking files off Greg’s desk, flicking through them, muttering bitterly at how boring they were and promptly leaving.

He threw a few comments Sally’s way, but mostly she fended them off with a glare.

Sam Brockhurst, who hadn’t spent much time with Sherlock in the past, thought the whole thing was hysterical when Sherlock commented on the two different women he had evidently been ‘engaging with’ the night before. Sherlock clearly hadn’t realised how high Sam’s threshold for embarrassment was, because Sam gave himself a pat on the back for that one.

Greg had put his head in his hands and wished the ground would swallow him and spit him back out onto the moon or somewhere equally far away so everyone would just shut up.

He looked at his computer and opened his draft messages. In there, sat three unsent emails to Mycroft. He opened them all, one by one, trying to work out if any of them were worth sending.

 

To: Holmes, Mycroft  
Subject: Shirt  
Hi,  
I still have your shirt, if you want me to come by and give it to you sometime.  
Cheers,  
Greg.

 

To: Holmes, Mycroft  
Subject: Hi  
Hi,  
Just checking to see if you’re ok.  
Cheers,  
Greg.

 

To: Holmes, Mycroft  
Subject:  
Hi,  
You alright? Think we should talk this over. What do you think?  
Greg.

 

Greg groaned and deleted them all. This was stupid. Not like he expected it to last anyway. What were they doing? They were having sex and mucking around and pretending there was some sort of future there. It wouldn’t have lasted, better to just get it over and done with early. 

 

* * *

 

 Greg had a case for Sherlock three days later. He drove them to the crime scene.

Across the road were two men conversing in suits. Greg recognised the man on the left. He had been hanging around crime scenes for the last week. He was usually with a woman with her blonde hair in a tight bun, with a stern mouth.

There was a third man today, just to the left, talking into his phone.

“That extra security over there better be for you and not me,” Greg muttered to Sherlock bitterly. “Because I am sick to death of Mycroft interfering in my life. We’re not together any more so he should just back off. I can take care of myself.”

“I expect it’s for both of us,” Sherlock said.

“Well, they should piss off. I’m not a child. I don’t need his protection.”

“Tell him yourself.”

“I might just do that,” Greg said, crossing his arms, knowing full-well he wouldn’t because for that he would actually have to pick up the phone and call him. And he was desperately unwilling to do that.

If Mycroft thought he was pathetic to try and ‘beg’ then he wasn’t going to prove the point. Pretending not to give a shit was a much better option. 

 

* * *

 

  _Mycroft was pressing Greg into a wall, kissing down his neck. “We could run into a castle and become ghosts,” Mycroft said. Greg just nodded and melted into his touch._

Greg was hard when he woke up. He wished he could forget the name Mycroft Holmes for good.

He wished he hadn’t woken feeling Mycroft’s hot body pressed against his own - and then realising it wasn’t real.

 

* * *

 

_February, 2007_

Greg frowned at his phone. It was an unknown number. “Lestrade.”

“Greg, it’s Caroline.”

He sighed. He knew why she was calling. “Hi.”

“Hello, how’re you?”

“Fine, thanks, you?”

“I’m good. Busy. Stressed. Wedding next week. Speaking of, you never RSVPed me.”

Greg pulled a face. “Yeah, sorry, I’m not-”

“Yes you are.”

“Caroline, I’m not coming.”

“I have plenty of single friends.”

Greg groaned. “I’ve just come out of a relationship.”

“All the more reason to get back onto the horse. Just come for the reception. There will be tonnes of free booze and you can get completely drunk and forget all about it. Please, please, please, I really want you there.”

“Why?”

“Because. Because, I do. You can’t say no to a woman getting married, Greg. It’s a stressful time.”

“Fine. Fine, I’ll be there for the drinks after dinner. But I’m not going to the dinner.”

“Good. See you at 8.30pm then!”

“Fine. See you, Caz.”

“See you at the wedding! Bye!”

She hung up and Greg sighed, walking to his wardrobe to see if there was anything he could get away with wearing.

 

* * *

 

 

Two days later and Greg was slouched in a seat as he sipped his seventh beer of the night. There were a few couples dancing, a few children running around. Caroline was stood by the cake with her new husband.

A woman with apricot-coloured hair and a black dress with impossibly high heels walked over to talk to the happy couple. Greg frowned and watched her. He sighed and looked at his watch. He’d leave the second he finished this pint, he decided. And ate a few more of those chicken things before he left. They were tasty.

He looked back across the room. The woman turned her head and looked right him and Greg looked away quickly. He glanced back. She was in animated conversation with Caroline. Christ, she was beautiful. Even with the beer blurring his mind, he could tell that much.

Fifteen minutes later (in which he hadn’t stared at her too much) Greg went over to the buffet, picking a few chicken bites up and putting them onto a plate.

“So, bride or groom?” a woman’s voiced asked. Greg turned his head and saw the woman with the black dress looking at him. Her head was tilted, a playful smile on her face.

“Bride,” Greg said.

“You family or friend?” she asked in a mild West Country accent, picking up some of the pineapple and cheese bites.

“No, ex-husband.”

“Oh. Ouch,” she said, wincing a bit.

Greg laughed. “It’s alright. I only came because she promised me free booze.”

The woman laughed too and held up her wine. “Oh, I know that trick. I’m Jane. Bride’s side too. We used to work together.”

“I’m Greg. At the school?”

“Yep. You seeing anyone?”

Greg laughed, surprised at how forward she was. “No. Just broke up.”

“Well, that’s lucky for me I guess,” she said.

Greg looked at her. “It is?”

“Potentially,” she said, sipping her wine and looking at him with a bright smile. She must have seen his frown because she laughed and explained. “Well. You were checking me out earlier. I saw you. And weddings are frustrating. I’ve never been particularly fond of them. And I hate dancing.”

Greg laughed. “I hate dancing too.”

She began walking towards a table and Greg found himself following her. “So. You came by yourself?” she asked.

“I did, yeah.”

“Are you very brave or very confident?”

“Neither,” Greg said.

She nodded. “Yeah, I know that story.” She bit her lip and watched where couples took to the dancefloor for a slow song. “How long have you been single?”

“About a month.”

She nodded. “Shit break-up?”

“Yeah. Pretty shit.”

“Me too. He wanted kids. I didn’t. So, what happened with your last relationship?” she asked.

“No bloody clue.”

“Hm. Yeah.” They both sat in silence for a minute. Then she spoke as she finished her wine. “This is really forward. I’m really quite a forward person. It’s a flaw.” Jane turned and looked at him, straight into his eyes. “But do you want to get out of here, get a drink at your place and have sex?”

Greg widened his eyes. “W-what?”

“I know. Forward. People always tell me off for it. But I think you’re really good looking. And I’m single, you’re single. And I know you think I’m hot. Besides, that way we don’t have to waste several hours where I try and pretend I’m a fascinating person just so I can get between your sheets. Not that I’m not fascinating. But right now, I don’t really feel like trying to promote myself.”

Greg hesitated and looked at her. She was stunning. A bit out of his league, maybe. “Let’s get a drink and see where it goes, yeah?” he asked.

“Ah, such a gentleman.” She laughed and Greg offered her his hand to help her up. “You superstar. Where’d you live?”

“Near Pall Mall.”

“Oh. Nice. What do you do?”

“I’m a DI for the Met,” he explained as they made for the door.

“No way. That’s really quite hot. Handcuffs and everything?”

Greg laughed. “Yeah.”

“Hm. Well, there’s a thought,” she said, winking at him.

Greg couldn’t help himself but laugh. She laughed too and they walked out to get a taxi together. For all her confidence, she didn’t seem drunk. Greg hoped he wasn’t taking advantage.

She sat beside him in the taxi. “So, when did you and Caroline break up?”

“A year ago last November.”

“Shit, she moved fast.”

“Well.” Greg frowned. “She was seeing him longer than that.”

“Oh God, she cheated?” Jane’s eyes widened. “Really? Caroline? And she seems like such an innocent human being. I’m really surprised.”

“I was too,” Greg admitted.

“It was a beautiful service,” Jane said. “A bit boring.”

“I only went for the drinks.”

Jane laughed, her eyes bright. “A man after my own heart.”

They kissed the second Greg closed the door and turned the light on. It was hesitant and slow for all of five minutes before he found himself wrapping his arms around her and carrying her into the bedroom. She let out a soft squeal of delight as she wrapped her legs around his waist.

Having sex with a woman again was unfamiliar and strange for only two minutes and then Greg’s body remembered how it worked.

They fell asleep in a tangle of limbs. 

 

* * *

 

 Greg groaned at the pounding in his head. He looked to his right and saw the ginger hair across the other pillow.

She made a disgruntled noise. “Why do I drink wine?” she groaned. She turned and looked at him. Her make-up was smudged, some of her hair unruly now on the top of her head. But she offered a smile and stretched out under the covers. “Can I maybe use your shower?” she asked.

Greg nodded. “Course. I wish I could offer you a toothbrush or-” She got out of the bed and walked naked across the room. Greg followed her with his eyes, unable to look away. “-Or, y’know. Something.”

She bent over and picked up her handbag. She took a toothbrush out and held it out. “I’m nothing if not prepared.” She grinned at him and walked out towards the bathroom.

Greg just shook his head. Well, she was nothing like Caroline or Mycroft that was for sure. And for a one night stand that was pretty much ideal.

She emerged in a towel, her hair in a bun right on the top of her head. She laughed at his expression. “Yeah, I know, the hair looks mental. I’m sorry. I will be out of your living space in 10 minutes. Just let me get dressed.”

“Do you want any food?” Greg asked, getting off the bed.

“Oh my God, really?”

“Yeah, really.”

“You are a complete superstar. Yes. Food would be so amazing. And a coffee. I could kill for a coffee. Course, shouldn’t say that in front of a policeman. Y’know. The killing thing.” She laughed.

Greg touched his head. Ow. He put a dressing gown on and she followed him out, still talking. “You know, people don’t usually give you food after a one night stand. It’s usually awkward and they’re like ‘well, leave now’. It’s easier to be the one being booted out. You can just run away and go. Some people they just hang around far too long.” She pulled a face. “Which is exactly what I’m doing right now isn’t it? And you’re being so polite, it’s sweet.”

Greg laughed and turned on the kettle. She took a seat at the kitchen table and watched him. “You’re really quite hot, you know?” she said. “Even with an blatant hangover.”

Greg ducked his head and poured them both a drink. She grinned at him and accepted the plate of toast. She followed Greg out to the living room and they took a seat on the sofa.

Greg turned on the TV and she laughed. “Oh, leave it on this channel,” she said. He grinned at her.

“Alright.” He couldn’t believe how natural it was as they sat and ate toast in silence while watching Tom And Jerry on the television.

She carried her own crockery through to the kitchen and emerged from Greg’s bedroom 10 minutes later in her dress and heels. Her hair was still wet and she wasn’t wearing make-up, but she seemed completely at ease. It was refreshing.

“Well, it was lovely to meet you, Greg,” she said as she walked towards the door. “No, don’t get up. Thanks for a really great night.” She reached the door. Then she stopped and turned around. “Actually.” She reached for her bag and put a card down on the table near the door. “I’m going to leave that here. So if you want to get in touch for a repeat performance or dinner, just give me a call and I’ll be up for that.” She flashed him a smile. “I hope to hear from you, Greg,” she said. “Last night was amazing.”

She walked out of his flat and Greg watched her go, too stunned to speak.

Well, that was the single most crazy woman he’d ever met. She was oddly charming, in a couldn’t-get-a-word-in-edge-ways kind of way. And great in bed.

Amused, he flicked the cartoons off and watched the news while he nursed his hangover. 

 

* * *

 

  _March, 2007_

Greg and Sherlock followed Brockhurst and Bullock into the block of flats. Their body was at the top of the enormous building.

Ed and Sam went into the lift first, followed by Sherlock. Greg hesitated for just a second before getting in. He made sure he stood right by the doors, one hand firmly planted on the side of the wall. He hadn’t been in one of these since his dip in the Thames, and although he’d usually to face up to his fear he wasn’t fancying the trip in the slightest.

He didn’t particularly fancy the stairs either though.

“You sure you want to take the lift?” Ed asked as his fingers hovered over the buttons.

Greg frowned. “Why not?”

“I thought you were claustrophobic?”

Greg stared at him. He was certain he had never told anyone except Mycroft and Caroline. “How’d you know?”

“You told me on your birthday.”

“Oh.” He was pretty drunk that night, he supposed he could have mentioned it at some point. Ed pressed the buttons and the lift took them up to the top floor. Greg closed his eyes and tried to imagine a massive field with space to run through without any restriction. He clenched his fist at his side as the image of water flooding into his face came into his mind. But there was no way in hell he was going to let this sodding lift beat him.

Greg was first to get out and he made a point of looking out of the windows to remind himself he was okay. He’d walk back down, he decided.

They walked into the flat together. They were greeted by an excited Scottish Terrier and three puppies, the mother dog looking up at them expectantly. Sherlock just began to wander through the flat ignoring them completely. Greg knelt down to pick one of the little ones up, laughing as it wriggled in his arms.

Sam pulled a face. “My allergies are going to hell. I’m going to spend the rest of the day sneezing.”

The puppy had begun to nestle its way under Greg’s neck and he kept it close.

“Body!” Ed shouted, followed by, “Sherlock! Put some gloves on!”

Greg rolled his eyes and carried the puppy through to the bedroom where the woman was hanging. The tiny dog had shut its eyes now and Greg couldn’t bear to let him go.

Anderson walked in a minute later. “Everyone get away from the body,” he said. “And someone stop this bloody dog from pawing at me.”

Sherlock, of course, didn’t step away from the body. He did put some gloves on and then stood on the bed to inspect the woman’s neck more closely.

“I’m going to talk to the neighbours,” Ed said.

He left the room, shutting the rest of the dogs out of the bedroom. Sam raised his eyebrows at Greg and then pointedly at the tiny black dog curled up in his arms. “Look at him!” Greg said, stroking the puppy.

“That pup’s going to have nightmares for the rest of its life,” Sam said, looking around the room and walking towards the dressing table.

“Probable suicide,” Anderson started.

“Wrong,” Sherlock muttered.

Anderson folded his arms. “Lestrade, I refuse to work with him.”

Greg groaned. “Come on, just all stop acting like children and do your jobs.”

“ _I_  am doing my job,” Anderson protested.

“Not very well,” Sherlock muttered.

“ _He_  does not work for the Met.  _He_  is a liability.”

“He’s also a bloody genius,” Greg reminded him. “Do we have to have this conversation every time?”

“Er, sir?” Sam said.

Greg looked at him. “What?”

“It’s hard to take you seriously when you’re cuddling a puppy.”

Greg rolled his eyes. Bloody hell. “Ignore the puppy and tell me about this dead woman.”

Anderson began to circle her. “Probably suicide-“

“-Wrong!” Sherlock said again.

Greg sighed and adjusted the puppy in his arms. It looked perturbed at him for a second before dropping its head back down onto his shoulder.

“Look at the marks on her neck,” Sherlock said. “The pressure is all on the right side, but the bruising from the rope is all on the left. She was dead before she was strung up here.”

“What else can you tell me?” Greg asked.

“Recently divorced, two, no, three months ago. She works as an electrician but she’s been having trouble getting work. She takes more pride in her dogs than herself, she enters them in competitions.”

Sam held up a picture of a dog with a rosette on his collar. “I think this confirms it,” he said.

“He cheated!” Anderson exclaimed. They all stared at him.

“I merely observed what was around me,” Sherlock said, jumping down off the bed. He walked out of the room, letting the other puppies back into the bedroom. Greg followed him out, still cradling the little creature in his arms. From the bedroom he heard Sam sneeze. Greg followed Sherlock into the kitchen.

“Anything?” Greg asked, setting the puppy back down on the floor. It took a seat down by his feet, like it was obeying his master. Greg stared down at it. He kind of wished he could keep it. At least he could lock the puppy away in his home and it would have no reason to desert him as long as he fed it and took it for runs in the park.

Sherlock began looking through cupboards and around the kitchen. He shook his head. “Nothing here.” Greg followed him back out to the living room where he began inspecting the door. “No signs of forced entry.”

Sherlock left 10 minutes later, declaring he had seen all he needed and he would have the solution soon.

 

* * *

 

 Greg yawned as he walked through the office two hours later. To his surprise, Sally was sat at her desk in some jeans and a jumper. “Donovan. I thought you were on holiday.”

She looked around at him and smiled. “I am. My boiler broke and my place is freezing. And I need a shower. I came round to get some warmth and grab Ed’s key.”

Greg laughed as he walked towards his office. It was nice to see their relationship had got so close. At least some of them were doing okay. “While you’re here you’re welcome to as much of my paperwork as you want. And I’ve got the number of a good handy man if you need one.”

Sally laughed. “That’d be amazing. Cheers, sir.”

Greg walked into his office and took a seat at his computer. He found the forms he needed to fill in and started printing them out. He looked up as Dimmock knocked on the door. Greg gestured to him to come in.

“Hey, Lestrade.”

“Alright. What’s up?”

“Brought the Kirkcudbright case round for you,” Dimmock said.

“Great. Thanks.”

Dimmock put the paperwork down on the desk and started for the door. He stopped and turned around again. “You know, me and Carter have been looking through the case. There’s too many gaps, Lestrade. Not all your fault. But there’s stuff missing. Apparently it was taken by the security services a couple of months back. About the time you handed it over to us. There’s stuff missing from the files and on the computer database.”

Greg frowned. “What?”

“Yeah. And one more thing. Why did no one go to the house to check for Moran?”

“They did.” Greg frowned. “Edmund Bullock went. I told him to take you.”

Dimmock shook his head. “News to me. I rang her last week to ask her about it. No one went.”

“But Ed said he was told Moran left the Kickcudbrights’ employment months ago.”

“Didn’t happen, Lestrade. Nothing.”

Greg frowned as Dimmock left the room and started flicking through the files.

He recalled the day he and Sherlock - or rather just Sherlock - made the link between ‘Seb’ and ‘Sebastian Moran’. And then Sherlock had realised Sebastian Moran worked as a camera operator for Hadrian Kirkcudbright and was the killer.

“I’ll go round to the Kickcudbright house,” Ed had said. It had seemed a good idea at the time. A good way to check if he were still working there while they tried to track him down at the warehouse.

But Ed hadn’t gone, it appeared. Oversight? Distracted? Why hadn’t he asked Dimmock to go with him like Greg had told him to? Greg rubbed his head as Sherlock walked into his office.

“Finally,” Sherlock muttered, picking up the Kickcudbright case files. He looked at Greg and narrowed his eyes. “What happened?”

“Edmund Bullock didn’t go to the Kirkcudbright house,” Greg informed him, still baffled. “The day we realised it was Moran. He said he would go and he didn’t.”

Sherlock stared at him. “Oh.”

Greg watched him. “What?”

Sherlock’s eyes widened. He slammed the paperwork onto the table and stormed back out into the main office. Greg jumped out of his chair and followed.

“What’s the MORnetwork and why is it after my brother?” Sherlock demanded, approaching Ed.

Edmund looked up from his computer screen and frowned at him. “The hell are you on about, Holmes?”

“You pushed Lestrade in the Thames.”

Ed began to laugh. “You’re an absolute nutter.”

“Oh my god,” Sally said. “You’re really not content to just come in here and act like a total bastard, you actually accuse us of killing our boss too.” She laughed bitterly.

“He didn’t kill him, Lestrade’s not dead,” Sherlock said. “Tried though. Why? Who wanted him dead?”

“Sherlock, hang on-” Greg started.

“Bullock knew about your claustrophobia because he heard you telling Mycroft. He heard you telling Mycroft because he listened to the bug in your coat. In fact, he planted it there himself after Donovan got promoted over him and he was employed by the MORnetwork. Now what is it?”

Ed shook his head and laughed. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yes you do. I’m astounded they hired you in the first place,” Sherlock said, frowning. “Moran is precise, clearly a trained sniper, he’s careful. He’s the perfect employee for a secret network. And you are an incompetent policeman. And yet they trusted you to keep an eye on Lestrade and try to kill him? The network isn’t that stupid. They knew you’d make a mistake. Oh, and you made a big one when you mentioned Lestrade’s claustrophobia.”

“It could have been you. You know about his claustrophobia too, clearly,” Ed pointed out.

“It’s obvious to me. There are white patches on the floor where the desk in Lestrade’s office used to be but he moved the desk so he could see his escape route out of the room. He never takes a lift in his own flat.”

Sally folded her arms. “Holmes, you’re an idiot. Ed didn’t do anything. He’s a policeman.”

Greg leaned against the wall. It was all insane and ridiculous. And yet, and _yet_ he found himself siding with Sherlock on this. “He didn’t go to the Kirkcudbright estate,” Greg said. “Why not?” he asked, turning to Ed. “I told you to. I told you to find out what you could about Moran and you didn’t. You didn’t get Dimmock like I said.”

“Yeah I did.”

“No you didn’t,” Greg repeated.

“He did,” Sally protested. “He told me afterwards, Moran had been gone for ages.”

“He never went,” Greg said again.

Sherlock shook his head. “You made a mistake, Bullock. You made a big one. The MORnetwork knew you would. They wanted Lestrade to find out you did it. Now who ordered you to kill him?”

“I don’t know who put the hit out on Lestrade,” Ed said, glaring at him. “I just did my job.”

“Not very well,” Sherlock muttered.

Greg frowned. “It was you.” The betrayal hit him in a rush. Anger began to bubble in his veins as he recalled the terror he’d felt. The nightmares he suffered for weeks afterwards.

Ed laughed bitterly. “Course it was me.”

Sally stood up, backing away from the desk and standing beside Greg. Greg wanted to reach for her and tell her it would be okay. Instead he watched Ed’s face, his unapologetic grin.

Sherlock laughed. “Oh, you really did a number on them, didn’t you? You had us all fooled, congratulations.”

“Shut up,” Sally spat to Sherlock, turning back to Ed. “What the hell do you mean it was you?”

Ed didn’t look at her, just kept staring at Greg, his eyes dark and piercing. “You should have promoted me, Lestrade.”

“Sally, you do know how to pick them,” Sherlock muttered, rolling his eyes.

“Shut up, Sherlock,” Greg hissed.

“If you all paid a bit more attention you would have known this months ago,” Sherlock continued to mutter.

“Shut up, Sherlock!”

“Lestrade,” Ed started. “I have a message for Mycroft Holmes.” Greg stared at him. He knew about Mycroft.

Greg swallowed. “What is it?”

“Operation Indigo.”

“What the hell is Operation Indigo?”

“Oh, he didn’t tell you?” Ed smiled sadistically. “What a surprise. Just mention it to him. See what happens.”

“How about you tell me about it before we have you arrested for attempted murder?”

Ed just laughed. “I don’t know what it is. But your _boyfriend_ does. And your boyfriend willingly put you in the firing line for it. Pity you didn’t die. I was hoping to get promoted with you gone.”

Greg stormed towards him, his arm drawn back, ready to lunge towards him and smack him, but Sam Brockhurst yanked him back. From the other side of the room Carter burst in flagged by two Police Constables. “They’re arresting him,” Sam murmured, pulling Greg back. “I called him in.”

Greg saw red as he glared at Ed. Greg wanted to punch his smug fucking incompetent face in.

Sally had stalked to the other side of the room and was staring out of the window. Her shoulders were shaking. Sherlock was watching it all with a bemused smirk. Greg wanted to punch him too.

Carter handcuffed Ed, and Ed couldn’t stop smiling. An unhinged smile, which shook Greg to the core. All this time. Under his nose. He tried to lurch for him again and Sam pulled him back. “Lestrade, it’s not worth it.”

“It bloody well is, he tried to kill me the fucking tosser.”

“And we’ll get him in jail for it.”

Greg glared at Ed’s back as he was led towards the interrogation room by Carter. He wanted to follow but he was a witness, and even in this state, he knew the procedure. Sam relaxed the grip on him and Greg hauled himself out of his grasp, marching towards his office. From behind him, Sherlock called out.

“Lestrade! The murder of the dog woman is someone who stole a puppy. There were five bowls in the kitchen, but only four dogs. You need to find someone selling a pedigree Scottish Terrier puppy, one with a good family history of show-winning. That’s your killer.”

Greg stopped as he reached the door to his office. He took a second to think about what he’d just been told, growled and walked in, slamming the door behind him.

He grabbed his phone and called Mycroft.

“Mycroft Holmes.”

Greg couldn’t even be drawn into his voice. The voice he hadn’t heard in well over two months. The voice he’d longed to hear, and now was so angry at. Mycroft was damned lucky he wasn’t in the building. “We’ve caught the guy who barged me into the Thames,” Greg snarled.

“Who was it?”

“Edmund Bullock.”

“Your PC.”

“Yeah. He said to tell you Operation Indigo.” There was silence down the line. “Mycroft? You going to explain it to me? Explain how I nearly died because of some fucking investigation you’re involved in?”

“Forget you heard it.”

“My own PC tried to kill me over it. So no. I won’t just forget it. Tell me what the hell is going on.”

“I can’t.”

“I don’t care. Give me whatever paperwork you need and I’ll sign it.”

“This is not your fight.”

“Yes, it is,” Greg shouted down the line. “Like it or not, I’m involved.”

“No. You are not. I have seen to that. Do not mention the name of the operation again.” Mycroft hung up. Greg slammed the phone down.

He stared out through the glass in his office. He watched his officers standing about, lost and reeling. He saw Sam Brockhurst pull Donovan into a hug. Sherlock had already left.

Greg sunk down into his chair as he watched the remains of his team. It was like a battlefield out there, littered with the bodies of stunned, betrayed officers.

Nothing ached like the betrayal in Greg’s heart.

And the hopeless feeling that he’d somehow let them all down. He’d failed to protect them from his own officer. And it would break Sally worst of all. 


	35. You Talk Just Like A Diplomat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ooh, so many theories - I love it! :D   
> Thank yous and shout outs go to the usual suspects: Jaeh, KingTaran, JustLookFrightenedAndScuttle, cosmicsoup221b, MisplacedLonelyHeartsAd, Novels, Abbennett, Jalizar, WhiskeySally, artemisdecibal, vanya, MoonRiver, Velma, Mice, day_dream_girl - all without whom I don't think I would have had it in me to have written 9,635 words today (and counting!)

_March, 2007_

When Greg got home, knowing the next few weeks were going to be long and difficult, he decided to come up with some sort of plan of action for dealing with the situation. He had to admit that he was struggling with it all. But it was Sally he was most worried about. Sally, with a broken boiler and no ability to shower in her home, who had left the Yard by the time Greg had built up the guts to leave his office.

Sam had offered to drive her home but she was having none of it. And now she wasn’t answering any of Greg’s calls.

So the key to the next few weeks would be keeping an eye on Sally. If a betrayal hurt Greg, it was nothing like how she would feel right now.

 

* * *

 

Work was put in hold for the first half of the day while he gave witness statements to the Superintendent and then to officials from the Independent Police Complaints Commission. Other officers who had been around the day before were called in to do the same.

As Greg walked out of one meeting, finally hoping to go to his office to solve a crime which didn’t involve his own men, he caught sight of Sally.

“Donovan!” he called to her. She didn’t turn around but he knew she must have heard him. “Sally!”

She stopped where she was in the corridor and then finally turned around. Greg walked to her. “Are you done giving statements?” she asked.

Greg nodded. “You?”

“Yeah.”

“Are you okay?”

“No. I hardly slept. I don’t understand.”

“I know. I know, I feel like that too. You want to go and get some coffee?”

She nodded. “Yeah. Just the two of us?”

Greg smiled a bit. “Yeah. C’mon. Let’s find a Costa Coffee or something rather than the cafeteria. My treat.”

Sally nodded and they walked out together, heading to a place Greg knew around the corner. He ordered them both a coffee and Sally found a table near the back. Greg carried their drinks over.

“You want to talk about it or just chat about something else?” he asked.

Sally shrugged. “Not sure. I’ve talked about it all morning. They kept asking if I was sure I didn’t know.”

“Sally, none of us think you knew.”

“I know. But I think I should have. You remember how we got together?”

Greg frowned. “You were giving him lifts.”

“Exactly.”

“Sal, there’s no reason why any of us would have put two and two together. We’d have come up with five. It didn’t make any sense.”

Sally folded her arms. “Maybe it would have made more sense if you’d actually talked to me. If you’d told me someone put a bug in your coat.”

“You’re blaming me?” Greg asked her.

“A bit,” she said. “Ever since Sherlock Holmes came along you’ve pushed me away and I’m flipping sick of it. Start letting me in again or I’m going to ask to be transferred.”

Greg frowned. “Are you serious?”

“Of course I am.”

Greg sipped his coffee and nodded. “I’ll tell you everything I know,” he said. “Everything I know. And then you can make a decision on the back of that. There is some stuff I don’t think I can tell you. We’re. No, I’m working with the secret services a bit on this one.”

Sally frowned at him. “The secret services are involved?”

“They’ve taken some of the Kirkcudbright files,” Greg told her. “And this is everything I can tell you.”

So he told her what he knew about the Kirkcudbright case. He told her about the link between the Russian woman at the bus stop and the man found dead at the jewellery store. He didn’t explain who the Russian woman was, or her links to the Russian secret services, but Sally was smart, and if she figured it out Greg knew she’d keep it quiet.

Greg told her about the MORnetwork - the link between the cases. How he had no idea what it was or what it meant.

And without making a clear connection between the crimes and Mycroft, he told her how their relationship was over. And if there was ever a moment where he and Sally started to connect again, that was it.

“What did he say?” Sally asked.

“He was just.” Greg shook his head. “He just turned into a right bastard. He was really brutal.”

“Did something happen?”

Greg sighed. “Sherlock was in hospital.”

Sally raised her eyebrows. “Why? What happened?”

“He overdosed.”

“He tried to kill himself?”

“No, no. Heroin.”

Sally raised her eyebrows and shook her head. “He’s a heroin addict?”

“Keep your voice down,” Greg muttered, glancing around.

“Lestrade, what the hell do you think you’re doing, letting a heroin addict on our cases? You’re going to get us all fired.”

“He’s been better,” Greg said. “Until then, he hadn’t had an incident in a long time.”

“Well, I guess that makes it okay then,” Sally said, rolling her eyes. “You’re too nice, you know that? It’s like you have this crazy need to look after people all the time. Well, some people don’t deserve looking after. Some people need to be left alone. And he’s one of them. He’s a complete bastard, everyone hates him, and yet you bring him to cases anyway.”

“He’s useful.”

Sally sighed. “Look, I know that. But it doesn’t mean I like it.”

“Are you going to tell anyone?” Greg asked.

Sally shook her head. “Loyalty, right? That’s what you and me have. Supposedly. Because I cocked up my first ever case and you made it disappear.”

“You’re a good cop, Sally. A fantastic Sergeant. If Sherlock wasn’t improving our stats, I’d have tossed out on his ear. But he’s a great asset.”

“He’s going to let you down. You have too much faith in him. And he hasn’t given me any reason to think he will ever change.”

Greg shrugged. “He hasn’t let me down though. Yeah, the drugs were a shame but I was sort of expecting it every time.”

“He’s an addict.”

“He finds things difficult.”

Sally snorted. “Finds things difficult? He just likes winding people up and watching their reactions.”

“To be fair, he always gets a reaction.”

“Can’t blame us for that,” Sally said. “He picks the thing you least want him to say and then says it.”

“I know.”

“The only reason I’m not more pissed off at him right now is because we wouldn’t have known about Ed otherwise. Because he figured it out. And he’d still be spying on us. And the only reason I’m not more pissed off at you is because he tried to kill you. So, for whatever reason that was-”

“-It was because of my relationship with Mycroft. I’m pretty certain.”

Sally looked at him. “You were nearly killed because you were seeing Mycroft Holmes?”

“Yeah. I think so.”

“All the more reason to stay away with him. If he’s being horrible and the reason you nearly died then I think you need to move on.”

“I’m trying,” Greg said. “We haven’t spoken since we broke up except for yesterday.” Greg sighed. “I don’t know. The more I think about it, the more I think maybe he broke up with me to try and protect me. But he could have told me that was why. Instead he’s just being a cold bastard and making me hate him.”

“It’s better,” Sally said. “If you can hate the person you’ve broken up with, it’s easier than being in love with them and liking them.”

Greg looked at her. “You loved Ed?”

She shrugged. “Right now? I hate him so much I can’t even consider if we were once good together or not. I’m sick of crying about it. I’m not giving him anymore of my time. He doesn’t deserve it.”

“You’ll meet someone else, Sal.”

She nodded. “I know. You will too.”

Greg reached out and rubbed her arm. “You are an absolutely fantastic Sergeant, Donovan. You’re the best of all of us.”

She looked at him. “No. I mean, I am a good Sergeant, and I’m good for you. But you’re the best of all of us. You’re pulling together a team of mis-matched personalities. I mean, look at Sam. He can be a right sexist, inappropriate pig at times. But you bring the best out in him. When we thought Ed was just a bit of a useless cop - before he was recruited to kill you or whatever - you gave him confidence.” Sally frowned. “You’ve let me down, Lestrade. A bit. You let me down because you didn’t trust me. You couldn’t tell me about the cases, you didn’t tell me about Holmes’ drug-taking, you didn’t tell me about Mycroft until you were drunk. That’s not how our working relationship has been in the past.”

Greg nodded and looked down at the table.

“I trust you,” Sally said. “I trust you to make the right decisions. For the good of those people walking around outside who rely on us when someone they love gets killed. Because they’re the only people who really matter.”

Greg looked up at her. “You’re right,” he said.

“I know.” She smiled. “No more secrets, deal? We’re both upfront people. We need to be open with each other again. We’ll both cock it up sometimes. But when we do, we need to tell each other.”

Greg smiled and held out his hand. “Deal.”

She laughed and shook it. “Now, I believe you have the phone number of some handy man who can fix my boiler? I had to go and use Sam’s shower this morning. And oh my God, you should see the state of his place. He has a whole space in the cupboard in the bathroom dedicated to spare toothbrushes for when women stay over.”

Greg laughed. “No, really?”

“Yes!” Sally burst out laughing.

Greg laughed with her and looked at his watch. “I better get back to work. I’ll text you that number when I get back to the office.” He stood and looked at her. “Sal?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks for being so honest.”

She nodded. “You too.

“You are the best Sergeant I could ask for.”

“And you’re an alright boss,” she grinned at him. “Most of the time.”

Greg laughed and walked out of Costa, feeling a lot better than he had before the start of the day.

 

* * *

 

Greg made a special effort to get his team down the pub the following week. They sat and drank the evening away, making perhaps a little too much noise and letting their hair down.

He held interviews for a new officer. They hired PC Piper Romowicz, who was taking her first job in a police force. The Met found a bit more money and they also hired PC Leon Henman.

Somehow, it felt like they had begun to wipe the slate clean.

 

* * *

 

_April, 2007_

Greg was sat at the desk in his office when the call came from Mycroft. Greg hesitated over answering it. It was 1.45pm, and he had been enjoying a quiet day in crime terms. He was slaving over paperwork, which wasn’t his favourite thing, but he’d put the radio on in his office and was eating his homemade leftover pasta. The last thing he wanted to do was put up with a conversation with Mycroft Holmes.

But he answered. More out of curiosity that anything else. After this long and now Mycroft Holmes was calling him? “Lestrade.”

“I require your assistance.”

Greg rolled his eyes. “I’m busy.”

“I need you to come round to the Diogenes Club in Pall Mall.”

Of all the bloody nerve. “No. I don’t just do what you tell me to do.”

“Greg.”

“Stop bossing me around for God’s sake. I’m not going anywhere. I’m at work. Busy.”

“Greg. It is a matter of some importance.”

“I don’t care.”

“Please.”

Please. Greg clenched his fist. He had to admit, he was a bit interested. “Fine. Fine. Where am I going again?”

“St James Street in Pall Mall. It is a few doors down from the Carlton Club.”

“Fine. But this better be something important. Because if it’s not, I’m not picking the phone up to you ever again.”

“Understood.”

Greg hung up and took some pleasure in it. Usually Mycroft hung up on him. But not today.

“I’m off out for a bit,” he said to Sally as he walked through the office. “I don’t think I’ll be long, but I have my mobile if you need me. If there’s any crime, even one you don’t think I’ll be interested in, give me a ring anyway.”

Sally laughed. “Where are you going that you’re going to be so bored you’ll take any case?”

“Meeting,” Greg said, shaking his head. “Just a meeting.”

He drove to Pall Mall with the radio on loud. He found a parking space in Bennett Street and then wandered down the stretch of St James Street. He found the Carlton Club easily enough, but it took a bit of walking back past it in either direction until he saw a small plaque with the words Diogenes Club on it, on the front of a large white property. He felt as though Mycroft was trying to intimidate him with this grandiose building.

He tried the door and met with a security guard. “I’m meeting with Mycroft Holmes,” Greg said. He held out his badge.

The guard nodded, but said nothing. Greg was led through a dark room where a number of elderly men sat in chairs reading newspapers or books. It was deathly silent. Greg didn’t say a word - it would have been like screaming in a library - as he was led to a big brown door. It was opened and Greg stepped in, where the door was closed behind him.

There were three dark brown chairs placed in a triangle shape around a table. Mycroft was the first person Greg saw, sat facing the door.

Mycroft, dressed in a a dark suit, looked up at him. His face looked strained. Greg tilted his head a bit and then noticed another man was sat in the chair opposite Mycroft. Greg could only make out the top of his head, with light blond hair.

“Take a seat, Detective Inspector,” an American accent drawled. His hand stretched out and pointed towards the third empty chair.

Greg paused for one second, looking at Mycroft. Mycroft inclined his head towards the spare chair just a fraction and Greg stepped cautiously towards it. He took a seat, his eyes fixed on Mycroft, who was looking at the blond American.

Greg turned his head. The American man was sat in a casual suit, a gun in his left hand, pointed towards Mycroft’s head.

Greg swallowed, quickly trying to assess the situation.

“So glad you could join us,” the American man with perfect teeth (in his mid-50s, maybe?) said. He continued to look at Mycroft rather than Greg. Greg’s eyes flicked between the two of them and at the gun.

Greg tried to relax into the chair, but his shoulders were tense. No quick movements, he thought. He felt like he was holding Mycroft’s life in his hands. The man turned his head slowly to look at Greg. His hand didn’t even move as he continued to hold the gun pointed at Mycroft. “Now, isn’t this pleasant?” he grinned.

Greg bit his lip, but didn’t say a word.

“So, tell me, Detective Inspector.” The American smiled. “What do you know about Operation Indigo.”

“Nothing,” Greg said, surprised at how calm his voice sounded.

The American continued to smile. “Pity.” He turned the gun purposely slowly, pointing it at Greg’s head instead. He turned his attention on Mycroft. “Come on then, Mycroft. I’m sure the situation’s pretty plain to you.”

“Yes, indeed,” Mycroft replied calmly, picking up a brandy from the table in front of him and taking a sip. Greg could only stare at him in disbelief. He was drinking a brandy now?

“Let’s pour one for the Inspector, shall we?” the American said.

“I’m alright thanks,” Greg said.

“Mycroft do the honours.”

Greg watched as Mycroft leaned forward and poured a third glass of brandy, putting it down on the table. He topped up both his own glass and the American’s. Watching Mycroft taking orders was surreal and Greg felt even more uncomfortable.

“Enjoy,” the American grinned.

Greg frowned and picked up the glass. He tried to catch Mycroft’s eyes, but he wasn’t looking at him. The gun was still held steady in the other man’s hand.

“It’s good brandy,” the American said. “Very old.” He looked at Greg. “Oh, I forgot. You don’t like brandy, do you Detective Inspector. How very stupid of me. If I had remembered, I would have brought you whiskey instead. Though I suppose you can’t be choosey in your current situation.” The man smiled and sipped his own drink. “You drank brandy the night you and Mycroft played cards, didn’t you?”

Greg was completely repulsed, but he tried not to show it. The idea this man had listened to their conversations, to those intimate moments between the two of them, made him sick.

“It was very curious,” the American continued, looking at Mycroft. “I never for one second thought you had an ounce of humanity in you. And then you met Detective Inspector Lestrade. Oh and look how much _humanity_ you had for him. Listening to the two of having sex on your sofa was quite beautiful. And here we are, Mycroft. You had a weakness and I exploited it. And I exploited it very well indeed.”

Mycroft looked across the room, face tense, but his body appeared calm. “Congratulations,” he said bitterly.

The man laughed. “Yeah, congratulations indeed. I deserve it. It’s taken a long time to get to you, Mycroft. I thought having Hadrian Kirkcudbright killed would be enough of a warning. But you don’t care about people’s lives, do you Mycroft?” He chuckled and looked at Greg, the gun swinging a little in his hand. “Well, until this one, I guess. What did you do, Detective Inspector? Are you very good at sucking cock? Oh you must be. Mycroft’s more of the silent type. You, now you, I’ve heard beg and ask for more. Maybe you’re not as good in bed as I imagined, come to think of it. Barely got a moan out of Mycroft here. What’s wrong with him, Mycroft? Is he not subservient enough for you?”

Mycroft’s expression didn’t change. Greg pressed his lips together, his shoulders shaking. He gripped the arm of the chair.

The American just smiled. “What’s he like, Mycroft? I’m very curious. Big, tough cop. Does he get on his hands and knees for you? Does he beg for you to fuck him harder? It’s a shame you’re both so vanilla. Always having anal sex in the bedroom where I couldn’t hear you. Lighten up, fellas. There’s a whole world out there.”

“We’re not together anymore,” Greg muttered, crossing his arms. The man looked at him frowning.

“Oh? Why?”

“He doesn’t have feelings for me. You were right the first time. He doesn’t do feelings.” Greg looked at Mycroft. I don’t mean it, he wanted to say, but he kept his voice hard. “You were right from the start. He doesn’t do humanity. He’s just very good at faking it.”

The man sat back in his chair. He tilted his head at Greg. “He left you?”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“Because he doesn’t have feelings for me. He liked the sex.”

“And you’re hurting?” the American asked.

“Course,” Greg said. At least that bit was true.

“Curious,” the American said. He turned the gun slowly from Greg and back to Mycroft. “Seems like I overplayed my hand in getting the Inspector to come here. It seems you care more about your life after all. I thought you were in love with him, but I can see how a man like you has carnal needs just like the rest of us.” He chuckled. “It’s very reassuring to know I was right all along. That you really are just a heartless, merciless, inhuman bastard. You’re a very good actor, Mycroft. But I suppose you have to be. In your line of work.”

“Quite,” Mycroft said.

“Come on, Mycroft. I know you’re dying to ask questions. Might as well do it before I kill you.”

“What can you tell me about the MORnetwork?” Mycroft asked.

“Very little. They’re incredibly efficient. But I barely know the lower rungs of the ladder, let alone the top of it.”

“I don’t believe that,” Mycroft said. “A man with as much power as you possess. And with your contacts across the Middle East. And you’re taken in by an organisation with no face?”

“It’s a web, Mycroft. Got a job that needs doing, and they do it. Efficiently. They could have people all over the place. Or there could just be one man and his snipers. No idea. Got my money’s worth though. Took a long time for you to figure it out. Hell, you still have no idea who they are.”

The American looked at Greg and then back at Mycroft. “Do you mind if I shoot the Inspector now, this conversation is better between you and me.” He moved the gun towards Greg.

There was the sound of smashing glass, and the American’s head dropped back. Greg looked around at the window. Back to the American. A line of blood ran down his face. Dead. It had been one single bullet to the head. Greg rubbed his face. His heart was pounding, his hands shaking.

“What the actual hell?” Greg managed to fire out. Mycroft didn’t move, just looked around at him.

“He was a weapons manufacturer. He makes millions on the side selling weapons to the highest bidder. Iran, Iraq, Russia. He doesn’t particularly care about the consequences. Operation Indigo was responsible for bringing him down. We had hoped to do it without killing him, but then he started threatening me. Under the circumstances, his death was necessary. It is all quite a mess to clean up. It will take at least a week. I had hoped to keep him alive longer to find out about the MORnetwork, but beggars cannot be choosers.” Mycroft stood. “Good afternoon, Detective Inspector.”

“Mycroft!”

“What?”

“You can’t just… I don’t… what the hell just happened?”

“Do not breath a word of this.”

“Or what?”

“I would hate for you to discover just how little humanity I have. Good afternoon.”

“You have to explain this to me.” Greg said, slamming the glass down on the table and letting the brandy spill onto it and over his fingers.

“I don’t,” Mycroft said, holding the door open for him. They looked at each other long and hard for a few moments. The club was so silent, Greg didn’t want to say another word. So he glared at Mycroft as he stormed past and out of the club.

 

* * *

 

He got back to his office and worked furiously on his paperwork.

Mycroft fucking Holmes. Well, if he had cared about Greg, he was still willing to put Greg’s life in danger. Nope. It was done between the two of them. That was it. Final. Greg hated the bloody bastard.

Sally was right. It did kind of help.

Greg reached for his phone and scrolled through the numbers. It rang three times before Jane answered. “Hello?”

“Hi. It’s Greg Lestrade. We met at Caroline’s wedding.”

“Greg! Hello, it’s been a while, how’re you?”

“Good. And you?”

“I’m great thank you. I was just shopping. I bought these beautiful earrings, they were half price. Absolute bargain. So, why the call?”

“I just.” Greg frowned. “I wondered if you wanted to have that dinner.”

“Oh! Really? Wow, I thought you’d never ask. Course I do, that’d be amazing. When would be good for you?”

Greg grinned. That was far easier than he imagined. “Next week sometime?”

“Yeah, brilliant. Friday night? There’s a Zizzi Restorante quite near your flat I think.”

“That’s great.”

“7.30?”

“I’ll see you there,” Greg said.

“Fab. Brilliant. Okay, cool. See you next Friday.”

“See you.”

“Bye, take care.”

“Cheers, bye.” Greg hung up and laughed. Alright, so he had a date. He was back on the horse.

 

* * *

 

 

A week later and Greg sat at a table nursing a beer. He had arrived a bit early and was sitting facing the door.

He saw Jane as she walked in, more high heels, with a floral dress on. She beamed at him as she walked over and took a seat. “Good evening,” she said. “Nice shirt.”

Greg looked down at it and laughed. “It’s just old.”

She grinned. “I like it.” The waiter came over and she ordered some white wine. “So. That call came a little out of the blue. Care to explain.”

Greg laughed. He forgot how forward she was. He had put it down to the wine she’d drunk back in February, but maybe this really was her.

“The relationship I was in took a bit of getting over. But it’s definitely over now.”

Jane smiled. “Fair enough then.” She handed them both a menu. “I am a huge fan of this place. They do the best risottos.”

“I think I’ll get pizza,” Greg said, looking at the menu.

Jane smiled and thanked the waiter for her wine. He took their orders. “So, where you from Greg?”

“London. Always London. You?”

“Dorset. I moved here about 10 years ago.”

“For work?” Greg asked.

“Yeah. Um. I passed my teaching exams and applied all over the country. And where I got my first job is where I stayed.”

“So, you worked with Caroline?”

“Yeah, I did. We got on really well. She was so good when I was just starting out, she was a year or so in front of me. Why did you want to be a police officer?”

“I didn’t really know what I’d be good at. I saw an advert and went for it.”

“You must be great at your job,” Jane said.

“Why do you say that?”

“Well, you’re clearly a friendly person. And you’re a… Detective Inspector, is that right? Did I recall that correctly?”

“You did.”

“Good. So, yeah, you don’t get there without some hard work, am I right?”

Greg laughed. “I guess. Thanks.”

She smiled at him, a big wide toothy smile. Greg grinned at her.

“How do you deal with it?” she asked. “The tough stuff?”

“You just have to try and switch off,” Greg said.

“Is it easy?”

“No. Never.”

Jane nodded. “I couldn’t do it. It’s amazing.”

“It was the perfect job for me. I’m lucky. Why did you want to be a teacher?”

“I don’t know. It feels like a crazy decision now. I like knowing stuff. That sounds really dumb, doesn’t it?”

Greg laughed. “No, it doesn’t.”

“Yeah, if you say so.” She laughed. “So, yeah, knowing stuff. And telling other people stuff. I think, maybe with hindsight, I’d have been better teaching adults. But it’s cool when the kids do well and you think maybe one day they’ll remember you as that fun teacher who taught them to spell onomatopoeia or something.”

“I bet you are a fun teacher.”

“I try! I end up with clothes covered in paint a lot, so I think that’s a sign we do some fun activities in my classroom. We made this beautiful Roman chariot last year. It was stunning. Out of cardboard boxes. And we put on this big play. Kids, staying in after-school clubs and stuff.”

“Sounds great.”

“It was. God, I am so sorry, I waffle. I’m like those things you put in the toaster and put maple syrup and bananas on.”

Greg laughed. “Waffles?”

“Yes. I am the biggest waffler. I just run on and on, just tell me to shut up.”

“No, I like it.”

Jane laughed. “Oh. Well, ta. That’s kind of you.”

The waiter brought over their meals.

“Have you ever been married?” Greg asked as he picked up a slice of his pizza.

“No. I haven’t,” Jane said. “No one ever asked me either. I know what you’re thinking. She’s 33 and never been married? What’s wrong with her?”

“I didn’t think that.”

“You wouldn’t be the first. I’ll tell you what it is. I’m the girl you pick up for one night and end up having some fun with. But then, when push comes to shove, I’m not the girl you take home to meet your parents. Twice guys have dumped me then six months later, they’re getting married and having babies. Well, except the last guy, who wanted babies with me. Of course, he wanted babies and I didn’t so. That ended rather painfully and abruptly.”

“I never wanted kids either,” Greg admitted.

“Oh.” Jane smiled. “Any reason?”

“I’d have had them with Caroline. But. No, it just wasn’t something I needed or cared about.”

Jane nodded. “Me too. My mum was sick when we were growing up, so I looked after my baby sisters a lot. It was kind of enough for me. They have kids now, and they’re cute and I see one of them a lot and take her shopping. But, that is enough for me.”

“You like shopping.”

Jane laughed. “I do like a bit of shopping, yeah. It’s okay, I won’t make you come with me or anything.”

Greg laughed. “Cheers.” She smiled and Greg looked up at her. “I didn’t think you’d want to come out on a date.”

She frowned. “Why?”

“Y’know, you’re a bit out of my league.”

Jane stared at him. “Are you serious? Out of your league. Oh my God, someone really did a good job of breaking your self-confidence, didn’t they? You’re really fit.”

Greg laughed in disbelief. “What?”

“You are! Look at you. You’ve got the biggest smile in the world, you dress nice, you’re a policeman and you have a hot bum. First thing I noticed about you. Nice bum.”

Greg snorted. “Really?”

“Yes!” Jane laughed and poked his arm. “You, my friend, are very good looking. I know it’s very early in our date to be saying this, but I’d love to do this again.”

Greg nodded. “Yeah, I would too.”

She smiled. “Good. My food is amazing by the way.” She held out a fork. “Try this.” Greg did and nodded.

“Yeah. It’s nice.”

She smiled. And Greg was strangely charmed.

They enjoyed the rest of their meal with the giggles. She was willing to tell ridiculous stories about her life. Like when she was a child and at school, they were asked what gifts the Three Kings brought baby Jesus. And she proudly announced Frankenstein instead of frankincense.

She told him how she was a klutz. About how she struggled with sarcasm.

And Greg told her about painting his and Caroline’s flat and falling off a ladder and ending up covered in paint and ruining their new carpet. About how he’d bought a new rug to hide it and she didn’t discover why for two months.

At the end of the evening, Greg walked her to the tube and kissed her cheek. “I’ve had a great time,” she said. “So, give me a call alright.”

Greg smiled and nodded. “I will.” He watched her go down the stairs into the station. He liked her, he decided. Enough to see her again. 

 

* * *

 

 

_May, 2007_

Greg and Jane continued to date. She kept him laughing, and although at times he thought she was a little bit loopy, she really listened to him and asked him questions, like she truly wanted to get to know him.

They had sex once in the beginning of May where she let him into her flat where he met her dog, Louis (named after the French king).

As so often happened, it was a lack of Sherlock which bothered Greg while he went through his usual routine. Greg hadn’t seen him since the Ed revelations had come about.

He turned up at Sherlock’s flat and to his immense surprise, was let in.

“Case?” Sherlock asked, sitting down at his desk.

Greg dropped one onto his desk. “We were struggling with it. Thought you’d take a look if you had time. Going to offer me a coffee?”

“No.”

Greg rolled his eyes and walked to the kitchen. The place was a tip. He poured the water and opened the fridge to get the milk. He stared at the arm. “Sherlock! There’s an arm in your fridge. Why the hell is there an arm in the fridge?”

“Experiment.”

“Where the hell did you get an arm from?”

“Bart’s.”

Greg rubbed his face. “For the love of…” He pulled the milk out and poured himself a coffee and a tea for Sherlock. He took it over to the desk. “What are you doing?”

“Analysis of tobacco ash.”

Greg snorted and took a seat on the sofa. “Sounds fascinating,” he muttered sarcastically, stretching out along it. “Saw you put the Kirkcudbright case on your blog.”

“Mm,” Sherlock said noncommittally.

“Mycroft fill you in, did he?”

“Obvious.”

“How’s he doing?” Greg asked, biting his lip.

“Annoying.”

Greg couldn’t help but smile. “Yeah. Yeah, alright. You keeping alright?”

“I’m not doing drugs, Lestrade.”

Greg rolled his eyes. “That wasn’t what I asked.”

“It was what you meant.”

Greg shrugged. Fair enough. “How’s your mind palace going along?”

“Slowly,” Sherlock admitted. “It’s difficult to jump into it when I need it without a long walk. I need to find a way to access the rooms more quickly.”

“You’ll get there.”

Sherlock turned around and looked at him. Greg watched him, allowing himself to be deduced. Sherlock spent half his life deducing bits about Greg’s team, but he hardly ever pulled Greg apart in front of them. He wasn’t sure why not, he’d left himself more than open. But maybe that was it. He allowed Sherlock to deduce him so it wasn’t half as much fun to him to say it aloud.

“I wanted heroin last night,” Sherlock admitted.

“But you didn’t.”

“Tempted,” Sherlock said. “I don’t have a drugs problem. I have a problem measuring the right amount and didn’t fancy ending back in hospital.”

“You do have a drugs problem. Taking drugs is a problem.”

“Only because it breaks your precious laws,” Sherlock said.

“No. Sherlock, I’ve seen you with needles in your arm and I’ve never arrested you. You really think my problem with your drug-taking is it being illegal? If that was the case, I’d have had you arrested. I didn’t.”

Sherlock frowned. “Why not?”

“Because I want you to be alive, you daft sod.”

Sherlock looked at him. “I don’t understand.”

Greg just smiled. “I know. That’s fine.”

Sherlock turned back to his desk and continued to type into his laptop. Greg sat across the sofa, just settling into it and looking through his phone.

“Why are you here?” Sherlock asked.

“Found myself with a spare half hour.”

“Before your date.”

Greg nodded. “Yeah. Before my date.”

Sherlock abruptly turned and looked at him. “I need you to restore my access to Bart’s. Molly brought me the arm. But I need to get back. It gives me places to experiment.”

Greg nodded. He’d sort of assumed Sherlock was going to Bart’s anyway. “Sure. Yeah. I’ll go speak to the people there tomorrow.”

Sherlock went back to his laptop and Greg stood up. “Sherlock?”

“What?”

“I’m proud of you. For not getting heroin yesterday.”

Sherlock just snorted in response, and Greg left him to it.

 

* * *

 

_June, 2007_

Greg was sat at his desk flicking through pictures from a crime scene. He looked up at the knock on the door. His heart beat a bit quicker and he licked his lips. “Come in!” he called.

Mycroft opened the door and nodded at him. “Alright?” Greg asked him.

“Fine. I require the files pertaining to Edmund Bullock. We have a lot of research on the MORnetwork to do.”

Greg sighed. “Yeah. Sure. One sec, let me pull them all.” It wasn’t a social visit then. He didn’t know why he’d wanted it to be. He went weeks without even thinking about Mycroft now. Sometimes he did. Sometimes he thought maybe there was still a shot there, even just a little one, if perhaps he worked up the courage to give him a call. But it was practically at the stage where he could call Jane his girlfriend. She’d stayed over a few times, watching films and chatting. Greg liked her.

He supposed it wasn’t good to waste time on his ex. He stood up and opened the filing cabinet behind his desk, flicking through the files. “Take a seat if you want,” Greg said. “I’ll have to print some stuff off.”

“No. Thank you.”

“Suit yourself,” Greg muttered. He pulled some files out and sat down at his computer. He did a search for what he was looking for. “What sort of stuff do you want? Case stuff and his employee records?”

Mycroft nodded. “Yes.”

Greg pulled up everything he had and pressed print. “So, did you hear about Sherlock putting his hand through a wall the other day?”

Mycroft frowned. “I’m sorry?”

Greg grinned at him. “Clearly not. We were at this run-down shack of a place. Sherlock was gesturing, you know, like he does. Next thing we knew, his hand was right in through the wall.” Greg laughed. “It was so funny. He was furious. Mostly furious because I was videoing it. Hang on.” Greg grabbed his phone out of his jacket pocket and found the video. He handed it over to Mycroft.

He laughed as he heard the sound from the video. There was Sherlock’s outraged voice. “What are you- are you filming this?”

“I am,” Greg said on the video. “So next time you’re pissing me off, I can remember this moment in its full glory.”

“My arm is stuck, Lestrade.”

“Great deduction,” Greg chuckled. “Obvious.”

Greg laughed to himself, watching Mycroft’s face. He wasn’t even smiling. Greg felt his face fall. “C’mon, it’s funny,” he said.

Mycroft handed back the phone. “It’s good to see Sherlock’s getting on.”

“Yeah, he is,” Greg said. “Been great the last two months. He’s working hard, he’s back at Bart’s. Off the drugs. All the drugs. I’m proud of him.”

Mycroft nodded and inclined his head towards the printer. Greg looked behind him and picked the papers off it. He held them out to Mycroft. Mycroft reached for them but Greg kept a tight hold of them as he looked at the other man. “Are you alright?”

Mycroft frowned. “I’m fine.”

Greg bit his lip and let go of the files. “Fine. Good.” He sat down and Mycroft turned and made for the door. “Wouldn’t kill you to say please, Mycroft. Or say thank you.”

Mycroft put his hand on the door handle. And ever so quietly he said “thank you, Detective Inspector.”

Greg sighed and watched him go, a dull ache settling in his chest. Time was, Mycroft had a face like that and Greg would have pulled him close. But not anymore. 


	36. I Don't Know Where I'm Supposed To Be

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am LOVING the theories and the split of opinion on whether you want to hug Mycroft or slap him, or whether you agree with Greg or think he's being an idiot. Tres amusing.  
> Thanks to Mice, Jaeh, KingTaran, cltc75, Novels, artemisdecibal, JustLookFrightenedAndScuttle, cafeshostakovich, ivefoundmygoldfish (melonpanparade), Jalizar, vanya, MisplacedLonelyHeartsAd, Velma, GoldenKhaleesi, Jill, and WhiskeySally. Thank you all so so much.

_July, 2007_

“Greg! I can’t find my bloody shitting purse.”

Greg laughed from his place on the sofa as he pulled Jane’s dog onto his lap. “Louis thinks you have a foul mouth.”

From the kitchen, he heard Jane’s cackle of a laugh. “Shut up, you!”

Greg grinned and stroked Louis’ head.

“It’s not even funny,” Jane said as she walked back into her lounge, a hand on her hip. “Where the hell did I even put it? I had it like 10 minutes ago when I went to the shop and now it’s just turned into a vanish-y thing.”

“Handbag?” Greg asked helpfully.

“Tried it.”

“Bathroom?”

“Why would I put my purse in the… oh! Yes! Bathroom!”

Greg shook his head and stood up, putting Louis’ lead on him. “C’mon then, mate. Found it?”

“Found it!” Jane said triumphantly as picked up her handbag and suitcase. “And I am ready and raring to go. Sorry I’ve been so slow this morning, babe, I know you wanted to miss the traffic.”

Greg shook his head. “It’s fine. Time to go.” He led Louis out and Jane locked the flat up behind them.

They put Louis on the backseat and got into the car. Jane set up the satnav and they were on their way to Dorset, for Greg’s first meeting with Jane’s parents. The discussions of the status of their relationship up to this point had been few and far between.

It had only been a week ago that Jane shyly asked if she was allowed to call Greg her boyfriend. It was endearing, the way she’d asked. Usually so full of self-awareness, unafraid to say what was on her mind, to see her questioning just made Greg smile and say ‘course, you daft woman’.

It was so very much the honeymoon period in their relationship. They had spent more and more time together outside of work, taking walks through London’s parks with Louis and nights at Greg’s flat watching films and discussing the merits of Gladiator over Pulp Fiction.

She was warm and open. Greg imagined a row between them would be blazing and brutal, but so far they’d found little to disagree over. And so, here he was. Willing to meet her parents in Swanage for the first time. It was daunting.

He’d told her about his adoption. She’d been surprised, but hadn’t questioned him on it, for which he was grateful.

Jane turned the radio on. “I’m nervous about today by the way. I might not have mentioned that before.”

“You didn’t,” Greg said. “But it’ll be fine.”

“Yeah, I know. And they’ll love you. They’re just a bit.” Jane pulled a face. “I don’t know. I can’t do anything right. They’re picky. And prickly.”

“Jane, it’ll be fine.”

“I know, I know. And we only have to see them for a few hours and then we can just spend time in the town and the beach and stuff. I just. I’m nervous. I’m always nervous before I see them.”

“Anything I can do?” Greg asked.

“No. No, just be your usual charming self.”

Greg smiled. “I’ll try my best.”

They arrived at Jane’s parents house, giving Louis a walk around a nearby park before being let in. They made them each a drink and they sat out in the garden, watching Jane’s niece and nephew playing with Louis.

“So glad Jane brought you round, Greg,” Jane’s mother said. “It would be nice to see a boyfriend lasting more than six months.”

Jane looked up at her with a fake smile. “Oliver lasted eight, mother,” she said.

Greg just sat back in his chair and sipped his coffee. If this was having parents, it was moments like this he was glad to have gone without.

He watched Jane over the course of the day. It was like someone had taken his usually-confident girlfriend and chipped away at her until, by the time they’d left, she was quiet and withdrawn. They sat eating fish and chips near the beach, as Louis sat by Jane’s feet.

She looked at Greg. “They’re awful,” she said. “What’s even worse, is half the shitty things they say is actually true. I really was a bitch at school. And I really did get kicked out of a club for hitting someone.”

Greg looked at her and smiled. “Don’t care,” he said. And he really didn’t. He liked her. He thought about the other word. About loving her. He thought maybe he should have been on his way there by now. It was okay if he wasn’t, he supposed. It hadn’t been long after all.

She curled up to him and he stroked her hair.

He knew he’d felt drawn to Mycroft. He knew his heart had raced when he was in the room. He knew his smile made him feel alive.

He knew it wasn’t the same. As much as he liked the woman in his arms, the niggle in his mind said he would have loved Mycroft - if given the chance. And, if given the chance, he would have loved him more than he cared about Jane. Hilarious, dippy, slightly lost and damaged Jane.

Was it settling? He wasn’t sure. But Louis chased after a seagull and she looked at Greg like he was the only thing that had ever made her smile. Greg kissed her. They watched the sun go down over the sea.

 

* * *

 

  _August, 2007_

Back in London, and life roared on at its frankly ridiculous pace, where Greg looked at his calendar and wondered ‘how the hell is it August already?’

He found he enjoyed getting home to spend a night with Jane. He found himself occasionally leaving work unfinished and not working as long hours as he thought he should.

They were going out tonight, to a fancy restaurant near Jane’s flat. Then Greg received a text.

 

MESSAGES Mycroft Holmes  
5.21pm: I fear tonight is a  
danger night for Sherlock. I’m  
concerned. Are you able to check  
on him? M

 

Greg sighed and text back.

 

MESSAGES  
5.23pm: Course. I’ll go there as  
Soon as I finish work.

 

He text Jane.

 

MESSAGES  
5.24pm: Hey. Going to be a bit late.  
Remember I told you about Sherlock?  
He’s not having a good night, I just  
need to pop over and check on him.  
Will text when I’m on my way back. X

 

MESSAGES Jane Starnes  
No worries. Will take Louis out first.  
Let me know :) :) xxx

 

Greg rushed through his last bits of work so he could leave bang on 6pm. He drove straight to Sherlock’s, knocking on the door. He wasn’t really expecting a reply so he let himself in. Sherlock was lying on the sofa.

Greg closed his eyes for a moment to remove the temptation to shout and scream at him. Turns out it was more than a danger night. It had been a whole bloody danger day. Greg didn’t know why. He didn’t ask.

He walked to the kitchen and grabbed a kitchen roll. He picked the used syringe up from the floor.

“I only had two hits,” Sherlock muttered.

“Coming down now though, yeah?” Greg asked, putting the needle safely on the side.

Sherlock nodded and Greg walked into the bathroom. He picked up some of the drugs he’d brought over last time he had pulled Sherlock through a cold turkey incident. Thankfully this was just a come-down. He text Jane.

 

MESSAGES  
6.24pm: I am so sorry. Can’t make tonight.  
Sherlock detoxing and I can’t leave  
him. I’m sorry. Free tomorrow? x

 

He wet a flannel and carried it through, sitting down on the arm of the sofa. He looked down at Sherlock.

“You need to drink,” Greg said. Sherlock’s lips were chapped, bleeding a bit. Greg sighed. “C’mon. I’ve got a wet flannel here, so it’s not too much. Just open your mouth for me, yeah?”

Sherlock complied, letting Greg squeeze a few drips of water into his mouth. Sherlock licked his dry lips. “Good man,” Greg murmured, standing up. “You need anymore, you tell me. Let me see what we’ve got here.”

He sat down on the floor, looking through the boxes of painkillers and vitamins. His phone went off.

 

MESSAGES Jane Starnes  
6.56pm: Ok. Let me know. Night xxx

 

Greg quickly text Mycroft.

 

MESSAGES  
6.57pm: Worse than danger night.  
Using again. Sorry to have to be  
bringer of bad news.

 

MESSAGES Mycroft Holmes  
6.58pm: Oh good Lord. Phone if you  
need anything.

 

Greg swallowed when he read the text and quickly put his phone away. “Shall we get you into bed yeah?”

Sherlock shook his head. Winced.

“Alright,” Greg murmured. “Alright, I hear you. More water?”

“Mm.”

Greg squeezed the flannel again. He watched Sherlock closely. “What helps?” he asked.

“Nothing,” Sherlock whispered hoarsely.

“Feeling depressed, yeah?”

“Dark.”

Greg nodded and sat down on the floor leaning back against the sofa. He picked a book up off the floor. A book of riddles.

“It was Mycroft’s,” Sherlock murmured.

Greg flicked to a random page and read it out. “I am the beginning of sorrow, and the end of sickness. You cannot express happiness without me, yet I am in the midst of crosses. I am always in risk, yet never in danger. You may find me in the sun, but I am never out of darkness.”

“The letter ‘s’,” Sherlock said.

Greg flicked to the answers in the back. “Got it in one.” He sighed. “I thought we were sorting this, Sherlock. What happened?”

“Why would anything have happened?”

“What happened?”

“Mycroft,” Sherlock said bitterly.

Greg sighed. “I don’t know what that bloke does to push away everyone who likes him.”

“I don’t like him.”

Greg rolled his eyes. “Sure you don’t.”

Greg picked up the book. He tested himself on some riddles. Sherlock got irritable, then depressed again. Greg rode it out with him, using his calm voice when Sherlock lashed out and called him an idiot. He read a book while Sherlock was low. He searched the entire flat and collected all the drugs he could find. And finally, Sherlock seemed to have pulled through it, at 3.21am.

He pottered through to his bedroom and shut the door and Greg drove home.

 

* * *

 

Greg spent the day exhausted, but got through until lunchtime and then called Mycroft. “Mycroft Holmes.”

“Hi. It’s me.”

“How is Sherlock?”

“He’s struggling. I don’t know what made him start again. I thought we were doing well, but he’s gone backwards. I’m going to put in a call at Bart’s and ask them to start giving him bigger stuff to do. But I haven’t got any cases either.”

“I will see if I can find him something to keep him occupied.”

“Cheers. That would be good.”

“He won’t talk to me. You’ll have to give it to him.”

“I will,” Greg said. “Thanks, Mycroft.”

“No problem.” Mycroft hung up.

 

* * *

 

Greg went to Jane’s that evening. She let him up and he made a fuss over Louis. “You look exhausted,” she said as she looked at him.

“Yeah, went to bed about 4 or something.”

She raised her eyebrows. “4am?”

“Yeah.”

“Because you were looking after a drug addict?”

“Pretty much.”

“Shitting hell, Greg.”

He stared at her. “What?”

She shook her head. “What do you do? Just let people walk all over you?”

“What? Where the hell is this coming from?”

“He is an addict, Greg. C’mon. You told me about the overdose. And the detoxing. And that he treats you like shit. And you just spend the night there and help him out. Grow some balls.”

“For God’s sake. He’s my friend.”

“Is that how he treats you? Like a friend.”

“No. But that’s okay.”

“How is that okay?” she asked.

“It just is, alright, Jane? It just is okay.”

“Because you forgive everybody and anybody for all the crap they do to you.”

Greg folded his arms. “What does it matter if I do?”

“It just does matter, Greg. It just does freaking matter.”

“Come on, Jane. Explain it.”

“I can’t. I just. I don’t want to see you get hurt.”

He sighed and hugged her. “I won’t get hurt. I can deal with it.”

 

* * *

 

_September, 2007_

Jane and Louis moved into Greg’s flat in September. The flat was warmer with her and Louis there. Smaller, perhaps, with all her stuff.

But it felt like home.

 

* * *

 

_October, 2007_

 

Sender: Holmes, Mycroft  
Subject: Conversation  
Dear Greg,  
Will you come to the Coeur de Lion Offices? I feel I owe you an explanation.  
Kindest regards,  
Mycroft Holmes.

 

Greg stared at the message for a long time. It was everything he had wanted to hear from Mycroft about nine months ago. And he was asking this now, in October. He chewed his lip. He wanted to go. He thought maybe it would clear the air. He didn’t want Mycroft to think he’d go to his every beckon call. But five minutes after he received the email, he replied.

 

To: Holmes, Mycroft  
Subject: Re: Conversation  
Hi Mycroft,  
Sure. When were you thinking?  
Cheers,  
Greg.

 

Sender: Holmes, Mycroft  
Subject: Re: Conversation  
Dear Greg,  
This evening, 8pm?  
Kindest regards,  
Mycroft Holmes

 

To: Holmes, Mycroft  
Subject: Re: Conversation  
Hi,  
Yeah, go on then. That would be fine.  
Greg.

 

He straightened his shirt before he left, looking at the mirrors in the men’s bathroom. He frowned at himself. He still had that excited flutter in his chest.

It’s not a social visit, he told himself. You have a girlfriend now, and you adore her. Because she’s quirky and fun and good in bed and because she isn’t anything like Mycroft Holmes. She’s open and upfront and doesn’t keep secrets.

But she isn’t anything like Mycroft Holmes.

Shut up brain, he thought. You like Jane. Could love Jane. Mycroft’s an idiot.

He drove to Mayfair. He found his pass for the offices in his wallet and was let in. He went through the security checks. Anthea met him outside, and let him into Mycroft’s office without a word.

Mycroft was wearing a pinstripe suit. It struck Greg, when he saw him, how he hadn’t seen him since June.

“Hi, alright?” Greg said, as he took a seat.

“Fine. Yourself?”

“Yeah, good, cheers.” Greg looked around the office. It hadn’t changed a bit. “So. An explanation.”

“Would you like a drink? Coffee?”

Greg nodded. “Yeah, I’d love a coffee. Haven’t had one of your favourite tasty coffees in a long time.”

Mycroft typed a message into his laptop and closed it down. Greg looked at him closely. If he didn’t know any better, he’d have thought he nearly looked sad. Not quite there, but almost.

A member of Mycroft’s staff brought a tray through and Mycroft thanked him. Greg leaned forward and took a mug. He inhaled it. “Oh yes,” he murmured. “Amazing.” He looked at Mycroft. “So. Um. Yeah.”

Mycroft watched him and then looked down at the desk. “I felt I owed you an explanation for what happened at the Diogenes Club.”

“Mycroft, that happens months ago.”

He nodded. “I know. I realise I should have explained before.”

“You should have,” Greg said. “But go on. I’m ready to listen.”

“The man you met - the man who pointed a gun at your head - is Rickard Luck. He ran a weapons manufacturing company out of the United Kingdom. Much of his business was conducted with the British army, and occasionally with the United States.”

“Rickard Luck,” Greg repeated.

“Yes. He sold weapons illegally all over the world. Russia, North Korea, Iran. Anywhere he found the highest bidder. When I made the discovery, I, and a team including Hadrian Kirkcudbright worked to expose it. Our intention was not to have him killed, but to find him a jail cell.”

Greg smiled a bit. “Bastard would have deserved it for threatening to kill you.”

Mycroft hesitated for a second. “I-thank you. Luck found out we were trying to prove a case against him. And so he arranged the killing of Hadrian Kickcudbright, using a secret organisation which hired Sebastian Moran to carry out his murder.”

Greg nodded. “I got that bit.”

“It was a warning to me,” Mycroft said. “A warning rather than simply killing me because he believed I am an abominable human being who, when shown the opportunity, would work with him rather than against him.”

“He was wrong about you,” Greg murmured. Mycroft flicked his eyes to his.

“Perhaps. Nonetheless, I did not heed the warning. Indeed, I didn’t even realise it was a warning.”

Greg smiled a bit. “A Holmes not making the connection? I’m actually stunned. Sherlock would mock you for years for that.”

Mycroft nearly smiled. “I know. Your team began investigating the case of a Russian woman at a bus stop. Tatiana Garzone. Her husband knew about the weapons which were illegally being sold to Russia. He decided to expose it. He was killed. By whom, I am not sure. Tatiana Garzone travelled to the UK to expose what her husband was murdered for. She was killed. We believe by rogue Russian spies, keen to keep the illegal weaponry a secret. Luck, of course, would have had her killed too.”

Greg shook his head. “God. This is absolutely insane. You know this is insane, right? Luck was a lunatic.”

“By now, Rickard Luck was keen on discrediting me by revealing me to be an employee of MI5 and MI6, working simultaneously as a civil servant in the Department of Transport. He ordered the MORnetwork to break into the National Archives. He did not find the files he wanted, and the national papers did not do the research into me he wished they had done.”

Greg leaned on the desk.

“Dimitri Grasty was sent to investigate Tatiana Garzone’s murder. Because if she was not killed by Luck, then she was killed by rogue Russian secret service employees. Luck wanted him dead. So, he arranged the break-in at the jewellery store in Oxford Street and Sebastian Moran presumably shot him from long range. Moran, of course, was working for the MORnetwork.”

Mycroft frowned, making a steeple with his fingers under his chin. “You began re-investigating the Kirkcudbright case. I apologise, Greg. I pressed you to solve it. I did not understand the full implications of you doing so. I worked with Hadrian Kickcudbright on a number of projects, and he was competent and skilled. I wanted his murder resolved. I never imagined it would link to Operation Indigo. I never dreamed Luck knew the operation existed.”

Greg nodded. “It’s okay.”

“Luck got interested in you, Greg. He wanted to know who you were, this man working beside me. And he had you followed. The MORnetwork hired Edmund Bullock, angry and resentful at not being made Sergeant and keen to seal his own promotion with you dead. He planted the bug on you. It was then, Luck discovered our… arrangement. He ordered you to be killed, which Bullock carried out with a level of incompetence I imagine Luck foresaw. Bullock was never hired by the MORnetwork to be successful.”

“Yeah. He was a crap policeman at times,” Greg said.

Mycroft smiled a bit. “We’re lucky he was. I should have known you would be a target.”

“It’s okay,” Greg said. “I’m alive.”

“You are. I did not heed the warnings to put an end to Operation Indigo. And then you discovered you were being bugged. Or rather, Sherlock did. And so Luck needed to up the ante.”

“My life was at risk, right? So you ended it with me.”

Mycroft ignored the question. “The meeting with Luck at the Diogenes Club was not supposed to involve you, Greg. He caught me quite unawares when he asked me to call you and ask you there. Nonetheless, I knew you were in no danger. Luck thought the meeting was a last-minute arrangement. In fact, we had agents setting it up for months. He overplayed his hand with you, Greg. He thought I was sentimental about you. He rather lost sight of the bigger picture.”

“What was the bigger picture?”

“Removing me from the equation entirely. He was useful for revealing information about the MORnetwork, and we got a little out of him before we had to have him killed.”

“I’m right though. You ended our relationship to protect me.”

“How is your girlfriend, Greg?”

Greg looked at him and frowned. “She’s fine.”

“Good. I’m glad. I’m sure it is far more appropriate than anything we could have had.”

“You don’t know that,” Greg said quietly. “You didn’t give us a chance.”

“I do know.”

“I don’t agree.” Greg bit his lip before he could say anything more.

“I miss working with you, Greg. There are cases I am involved in where you could be a valuable asset to MI5.”

Greg stared at him. “What?”

“It wouldn’t require any work outside your usual jurisdiction, but I will be able to pass on tips and advice. I do have some documents you would have to sign, and some paperwork to read, but you don’t need to make the decision now.”

“I’ll do it. Whatever you need me to do.”

Mycroft opened a drawer and took out a few stapled pieces of paper. He slid them over the desk. “Our working together makes perfect sense. We both want the same outcomes for Sherlock. We trust each other, or at least, I trust you. And we know each other well.”

“I don’t know you,” Greg said. “I thought I did, but I don’t think I do. I don’t know what you think or feel when you say things to me.”

Mycroft lowered his eyes. “Perhaps it’s best not to discuss our previous relationship.”

Greg took a long breath and stayed quiet, beginning to read the documents. Mycroft was silent while he did so.

“You got a pen?”

Mycroft passed one over and Greg signed it.

“I will contact you when there is something you can become involved with.”

Greg nodded. “Cheers. Right. Well, thanks. Thank you for filling me in.” He stood up and took one last long look at him. He wished he could make him smile again.

“What’s the dog’s name?” Mycroft asked.

“Louis.”

Mycroft nodded. “Goodnight, Greg. I will be in touch.”

Greg let out a breath and walked for the door. He let himself out of the office.

 

* * *

 

_November, 2007_

Sherlock walked straight into Greg’s office without knocking.

“What?” Greg asked irritably.

“You have a man in on a murder charge. Angelo.”

Greg frowned. “Yeah. So? What of it?”

“He’s not the man you’re after.”

“What d’you mean? We got all the evidence.”

“No. At the time, he was on the other side of London. Housebreaking.”

Greg stared at him. “Are you kidding?”

“No.”

“Got any evidence.”

“Plenty.” Sherlock laid some pictures down on the table. Time-stamped CCTV.

“Where the hell did you get this from?” Greg asked, flicking through them.

“Who’d you think?”

“Mycroft,” Greg muttered, frowning. “Still gonna charge him for breaking and entering.”

Sherlock shrugged. “Gets him off the murder charge though.”

“Yeah. Yeah, fine.”

Greg watched as Sherlock turned and left with an overly dramatic swish of his coat.

 

* * *

 

_December, 2007_

For the first time in his career, Greg took Christmas off. Somehow he thought he owed Mycroft for that. Their time together, the time Greg had been willing to put into it, had made him realise where he had messed it up with Caroline. But not this time, not with Jane.

He and Jane spent it at their flat, where she cooked them a roast dinner and they opened presents after lunch.

They took Louis for a walk in the afternoon before curling up on the sofa eating leftovers and watching Pixar films.

Somehow, while playing a game with Louis, she had managed to knock their six foot Christmas tree down and when Greg emerged from the kitchen with some drinks she was in hysterical laughter on the floor while Louis trotted around the room proudly with a bauble in his mouth. She was still wearing reindeer ears on her head (she had tried to convince Greg to wear some, but he was having none of it). She looked up at him sheepishly, pulling Louis close. “It was him!” she said. “He’s the rapscallion who done it. Arrest him immediately, Inspector.”

“I fucking love you,” Greg laughed.

She looked up at him from her place on the floor with the biggest grin. “Yeah. I kinda love you too,” she said.

It was the best Christmas Greg could remember. 

 

* * *

 

  _January, 2008_

Greg was stood close to a wall, pulling his coat more firmly around him if it were possible. He coughed and wiped his nose on his sleeve.

He felt like death warmed up, but they were here in the dark with a body down an alley way in Kensington. The rain was merciless around them.

Sherlock was stood in a doorway, somehow taking up all the room with his skinny body and long limbs, and he was the only one getting any shelter at all.

The dead woman in question had been slashed in the abdomen. Greg coughed again, turning away from his team in some attempt to not pass it on. He rubbed his throat. He hadn’t felt this awful in a long time.

“Come on, Sherlock!” Greg called out, every word a dull ache in his throat. “Gonna tell us something or just stand there being the only one of us actually dry?”

“I cannot believe you brought me here for this, Lestrade.”

From her place near the police tape, Greg could practically hear Sally’s eye-roll.

“Look, it’s a good case. Probably.”

“I’m not interested,” Sherlock said.

“What do you mean, you’re not interested?”

“A woman walking in the streets gets attacked for her jewellery and money. She puts up a fight and gets killed. It’s a random murder, driven by money in not particularly unusual circumstances. It’s boring. There’s no chase, no need to delve into the mind of the killer. It’s tedious so why have you brought me here?”

“I brought you here because I thought you might want to take a look.”

“Well, I’ve looked. And it’s awful.”

“Yeah, it is,” Greg said. “A woman on her own at night and-”

“-No, I mean the case is awful. The only reason you brought me here is because you’re too incompetent to solve it yourself and you know it. I refuse to be at your beckon call. Contact me when you have something interesting.” Sherlock ducked out of the door way and began to walk back down the alley way.

“Sherlock! You must have deduced something!”

Sherlock stopped. Then turned around. “Solve it yourself, Inspector. Or are you so reliant on me that you’ve forgotten how to do that? You must have been able to do it once upon a time or you would never have been made Detective Inspector.”

“Sherlock!”

“Oh!” Sherlock’s eyes widened. “That’s what it is. You think by bringing me here you’re saving me, don’t you? You think if you involve me then you’re going to stop the drug taking and cure my mind. Is this some left over remnant from being fostered? Nobody wanted you as a child, so now you have to try and prove to everyone else that they are wanted? Don’t bother, Lestrade. You are not my keeper.”

Greg stared at him. “That was uncalled for, Sherlock.”

“So was your relationship with my brother.”

Greg groaned. “Oh God.” And this time he did not call Sherlock back. His team were looking at him quizzically. “Where the hell is Anderson? I called him half an hour ago.”

One thing was for sure. There were no more secrets in Greg’s team.

 

* * *

 

_February, 2008_

“Lestrade,” Greg said distractedly as he answered his phone, walking through Bart’s to talk to Molly about a body she had been given to look over.

“Good afternoon.”

“Mycroft. Hi. You alright?”

“Very well. Would you like to make a high-profile arrest?”

Greg stopped just outside the door to the morgue where he saw Molly working through the door. “Wouldn’t say no. Who?”

“I can get you onto an Executive Liaison Group if you are interested.”

“I am. But I don’t have any time to sit in on meetings or anything.”

“Just the one meeting. And then you can carry out an arrest and take the credit.”

Greg frowned. “Hang on, no, I feel a bit wrong just taking the credit for something you’ve been working on.”

“Actually, you would be doing me a favour. We are hoping to keep our names out of this. Thames House, tomorrow, 2pm?”

It was actually Greg’s day off. But he weighed it up pretty quickly. “Yeah, go on then. See you there.”

“Excellent.” Mycroft hung up and Greg went through to see Molly.

 

* * *

 

Greg drove to the MI5 headquarters where he was greeted by Anthea. He went through the security and spoke with her as they walked to the meeting room. “So, why am I being called in on this?”

“Mr Holmes expects you will do an exemplary job. Why not you?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think Mycroft does anything for one reason. I think he has a million reasons for every one decision he makes.”

Anthea opened the door to a large meeting room. Mycroft was already seated at one side, working on his laptop. Each seat had a name tag in front. “You are on Mycroft’s left,” Anthea told him. “Tea or coffee?” She held up a cup.

“Coffee.”

She poured one out and handed it to him. She nodded. “Anything else?”

Greg shook his head. “No. Thanks.” Greg took a long breath before walking around the table towards Mycroft. He checked the name tag on the table. ‘Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade for the Metropolitan Police’. No mistaking that then. Definitely his seat.

He pulled the chair out and sat down. “You’re here early,” he said to Mycroft.

“Sometimes being early to a meeting gives the impression you are the most prepared person in the room. On other occasions, arriving one minute before gives the impression you feel the meeting isn’t worth your time. I use both strategies, depending on the event at hand.” He closed his laptop and handed Greg a piece of paper. “An agenda.”

Greg looked down at it. “This is definitely not my kind of meeting.”

“It’s a strategy meeting, no more, no less. It shouldn’t take more than an hour.”

A man with grey hair and a dark blue suit entered the room. Mycroft nodded to him and turned his head so he could murmur near Greg’s ear. “Head of Strategic Planning for MI5. Believes himself to be completely irreplaceable. Regarded somewhat as a dinosaur.”

Greg smiled a bit. “What’s your role then?”

“I am merely an adviser.”

Greg laughed and sipped his coffee. “Course you are.”

“That’s Marie Tunstall,” Mycroft murmured as a woman entered the room. “She invited the Metropolitan Police to become involved. She is your Commander’s new partner. Quite into the, shall we say, leather scene.”

Greg pulled a face. “Cheers, Mycroft. That was definitely an image I wanted in my head.”

Mycroft half smiled. “I sit in so many meetings. I just find myself deducing people constantly. I tend to share it with Anthea. She is getting quite skilled at it herself, I have to say.”

“What about that guy by the coffee?” Greg asked.

“He will be taking the minutes. Would probably find it quite easy to find himself a girlfriend if he didn’t spend so much time playing computer games.”

Greg covered his face to hide a laugh. He looked at Mycroft and they shared a hesitant smile. Greg bit his lip. “It’s good to see you.”

Mycroft nodded. “Yes. Yes, it’s good to see you too.”

“Right then,” Marie Tunstall said. “Shall we get started?”

The meeting wasn’t as boring as Greg was expecting. It involved three criminals who had been building bombs in their home in Barking. Judging by the information MI5 had on them, they weren’t particularly subtle about it.

“It’s the reason we want to give this to the police,” Mycroft murmured as pictures of them were shown on the projector. “MI5 can’t be seen to be wasting our time on these sorts of hapless terrorists. A potential danger, yes. And we need to take them off the streets certainly. But was it really worth the hours put into it? It was led by a team who spent more time gambling than working. This should have been dealt with months ago.”

“But it looks good for us if we arrest them,” Greg acknowledged.

“Precisely,” Mycroft said. “I felt after the Rickard Luck affair, I rather owed you.”

“You don’t owe me anything,” Greg said quietly, turning back to watch the slides. He was so conscious of Mycroft by his side. He was aware every time Mycroft moved his arm to write something down or check his phone. He could practically feel the heat radiating off him. He imagined if he leaned slightly to his right he was sure he’d be able to smell the other man’s aftershave.

Greg reached for his coffee and his hand brushed Mycroft’s arm. He felt as though he’d been electrocuted. He was sure he could still feel that touch for hours afterwards.

 

* * *

 

The arrest was wonderful. A huge success. His entire team were buzzing about it for weeks afterwards.

 

To: Holmes, Mycroft  
Subject: Arrest  
Hi Mycroft,  
Just wanted to say thank you for letting me in on that case. Spirits are really high here. Hasn’t been so good since before Bullock. Thanks. I owe you.  
Cheers,  
Greg.

 

Sender: Holmes, Mycroft  
Subject: Re: Arrest  
Dear Greg,  
You will never owe me anything.  
Kindest regards,  
Mycroft Holmes.

 

Greg sat back at his desk. He read that single line in every possible way it could be read. He tried to see between the words, and tried to just read it as a straight sentence. He gave up on trying to read the subtext. So he didn’t reply at all. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eek, time is well and truly speeding up!


	37. Can't Wash Out Your Memories

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First: Chapter warnings for references to torture and Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.  
> Second: Welcome, new readers! I so hope you're enjoying it.  
> Third: Lots of thank yous. I've had a tough couple of days at work (Not as in hard, just as in long and excessively busy). I read your comments to give me a pick-me-up! To Mice, cosmicsoup221b, ahutchga1972, Jaeh, Jill, Abbennett, Nod, Jalizar, JustLookFrightenedAndScuttle, MoonRiver, WhiskeySally, oxana, ivefoundmygoldfish (melonpanparade), vanya, Novels, ainraatheexplorer, KingTaran, Dark_LightRae, artemisdecibal, OwlinAutumn, Brixuk, skeptic7, mycroftson, miss_anthr0pe and earlgreywithcream. You guys all give me such a lift, and I just hope I don't screw up!

_February, 2008_

When Greg received a call to say there had been a second victim in Kensington with a slash to the abdomen he wished he could say he was surprised. But the seemingly random nature of the first murder meant he was half expecting the second. It hadn’t seemed like a crime of passion and the type of injury she had received implied it wasn’t necessarily someone who knew the victim.

He went to the scene with Anderson and the rest of his team. The man must have died in serious pain, judging by his injuries and the horrific amount of blood.

Greg was at Bart’s when the family confirmed the name of the victim. He saw from a distance the way the wife fell to her knees and sobbed while her father tried to keep it together for her sake.

Greg wasn’t affected by people’s emotions often. Indeed, he probably didn’t do enough of the dreaded death knocks as perhaps he should. There was always an element of delegation in his role, but he wondered if he gave other people those jobs because day in, day out it would get to him.

He got home, fussed over Louis, and had a shower. Jane arrived late from a parent’s evening and got back at 8.12pm, just as he was changing into some loose clothing.

“How was your day?” she asked. She looked at him. “Oh God, not good?”

Greg shook his head. “Not brilliant.”

“I put the shepherd’s pie on the timer so it should be ready in 20 minutes.” She walked over to him and wrapped her arms around him. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“No,” Greg said, stroking her hair. “No, I don’t really know how to say it, it’s just a rough day.” He kissed the top of her head. He thought about the woman at Bart’s. And how lucky he was to have someone.

She nodded. “Guess there’s always rough days. What can I do?”

“I just need to sit down with the Bart’s reports and read them. But you do whatever you want.”

She nodded. “Okay.”

He gave her a quick kiss and collected the files from his bag, stretching out over one of the sofas. Jane watched him for a moment before going to the kitchen. “Want a coffee?”

“Any beers?” he asked.

“Plenty.” She brought one out to him. “You know, this is the first time I’ve seen a case bother you.”

Greg shrugged. “It happens sometimes. It’s ones like this. Where you look at it, and on the face of it there’s no connection between the victims. And you can’t see where the motive is. But sometimes people are just evil.”

Jane sat down on her preferred place on the floor, rolling a ball for Louis to fetch. She switched the television on and watched Holby City before getting up and bringing their dinners over.

They ate in silence, Greg still mulling the case over in his mind.

Two victims found outside in the same part of London. The murders had taken place at night, in alleyways, next to the area businesses dumped their rubbish. Both on Tuesdays. As far as Greg could see, the general location, Tuesdays and the method of killing were the only connections.

At 10.23pm, Jane declared herself done with the evening. She took Louis for a quick walk and then got ready for bed. Greg was still sat looking at the victims’ employment records.

“Are you coming to bed?” she asked.

“Not yet. I’m nearly done.”

She nodded. “Greg?”

“Yeah?”

“I think you do an amazing job. Whatever it is, I know you’ll solve it.”

Greg managed a smile as Louis settled at his feet. “I’ll go to bed in a bit.”

Jane smiled and left him with his reading.

 

* * *

 

Greg put his paperwork down on his desk with a frustrated sigh. He was getting no where. Time to try Sherlock again.

 

MESSAGES  
1.23pm: Got a case.

 

MESSAGES Sherlock Holmes  
1.25pm: What case? SH

 

MESSAGES  
1.26pm: Another Kensington slash  
victim

 

MESSAGES Sherlock Holmes  
1.26pm: No. SH

 

MESSAGES  
1.28pm: What do you mean no?

 

MESSAGES Sherlock Holmes  
1.30pm: Not interested. Got my own  
cases. Will only solve your interesting  
ones.

 

MESSAGES  
1.33pm: This one is interesting!

 

No reply. Sherlock offered no reply. Greg stared at the crime scene photographs on his desk. Perhaps Sherlock was right. Perhaps it was about time he solved his own case by himself.

The fear though was that there would be another victim. And if there was another, could Sherlock have solved it quicker before it got to that stage?

The newspapers were calling it the Kensington Ripper. It was the very worst name they could have come up with because it simply incited fear. Greg groaned when he read the headline on the front of the Metro.

_Kensington Ripper strikes second time - Police mystified._

We’re not bloody mystified, Greg wanted to write in. But you come to my office and look at this case and tell me what we’re missing. You come in here and solve it with the resources we have. Come and tell me which leads we haven’t followed. Because I promise you, we are doing our best.

 

* * *

 

Greg leaned against the kitchen counter top drinking a beer while Jane did the washing up. He’d had a long Sunday at work and was quite looking forward to getting into bed.

He studied her. Her apricot coloured hair. Jeans, black jumper, hair tied up in that crazy bun right on the top of her head. Her make-up was smudged on her left eye. Greg supposed she hadn’t even taken it off since she’d got out of her shower that morning.

And he felt happy. Glad because she was there. There was no one else in the world he could imagine spending the evening with and that was always a good sign. “Would you marry me?”

Jane spluttered and turned to him, her hands still in the sink “What the actual what?”

Greg frowned. He hadn’t meant to say that aloud, that was truly the worst thing he could have said. “Sorry, ignore me.”

Jane laughed. “That was the most unromantic proposal in the history of proposals.”

Greg shook his head. “Yeah. I know. Sorry.”

Jane returned to her washing, picking up a plate. “So go on then,” she said.

Greg stared at her. “What?”

“Well, if you’re crazy enough to get married twice then I suppose I can be crazy enough to give it a go too.”

“But that was really unromantic.”

She smiled at him. “It was. But that was the only proposal I’ve ever had so I haven’t got anything else to compare it to.”

Greg shook his head. “You’re crazy.”

She took her hands out of the sink, grinning. “I know. I want a ring though. A really big one. Antique.”

“Antique?”

“Yeah. I kind of like the idea of a woman wearing it for 60 years until she and her husband go to bed one night and just die in each other’s arms.”

“I think it’s more likely the rings have been sold because they’ve run out of cash.”

She cackled. “I know. But I can pretend it’s really romantic. Like your proposal.”

Greg laughed and walked to her, kissing her on the cheek. “I do love you.”

“Yeah, I know,” she smiled. “And I do too.”

 

* * *

 

_March, 2008_

They found Jane a ring at the Portobello Market. She’d seen it from a distance, exclaiming ‘that one!’ They looked at it together. The stone was green to match her eyes.

It was untraditional, like her. Bright and shiny. And Greg couldn’t say no to her for love nor money.

 

* * *

 

Greg sat on the sofa flicking through the Kensington Ripper case. For a murder the press were obsessing over, there was nothing new in it for the past three weeks. Nonetheless, it had been added to the high priority list, so Greg was now obsessing over it too.

Jane was lying on her stomach on the floor, flicking through bridal magazines. Louis was sat beside her legs, his head resting on the back of her thigh. He was fast asleep.

“Greg? What kind of wedding do you want?” she asked from the floor.

“I want whatever you want,” Greg said distractedly. He studied the crime scene photo again.

“Then I want it really small. So small that you can wear jeans if you want. And then a really massive party with everybody we know where everyone gets really wasted. And then we’re too drunk to even have sex because the party was just that good.”

Greg frowned and looked at her. “Are you serious?”

“Yep. Let’s get married in July.”

“Next year?”

“No, this July.”

Greg started to laugh. “This July? Four months time July?”

“Yes please,” she said. “I’ve made my mind up. I want to marry you, let’s do it in July in a super speedy ceremony. And then have a big party with a barbecue.”

Greg laughed. “I am marrying the maddest woman on the planet.”

She shrugged. “Well, I’m not virginal enough for a white dress. And I don’t like all the attention on me. You, me, my mum and dad and my sisters and your dad and his girlfriend. And Sherlock or something.”

Greg snorted. “Not Sherlock.”

“Sally?”

“Yeah, Sally.”

“I’ll track down a venue,” Jane said, grabbing her laptop off the table. Louis startled and then went back to his previous position.

Greg smiled down at them and went back to his work. It suited him not to have a massive fuss. He liked a good party every now and then.

 

* * *

 

The third Kensington body appeared on a Tuesday. Like the others.

Greg felt sick to his stomach when he saw the crime scene photographs. He went with PC Piper Romowicz to meet and talk to the family. Their pain made his heart ache.  

* * *

 

 

_April, 2008_

There was a distinct lack of Holmes-like creatures in Greg’s life, he realised. A very noticeable void.

He never thought he’d miss Sherlock’s snark, especially after his chat at a crime scene which left his whole team trying to work out just what their boss’ sexuality was.

Sherlock wasn’t answering his phone. He wasn’t replying to emails. He never seemed to be at home either, which made the whole thing even more bizarre.

Greg had tried Mycroft. He’d tried his phone, calling and texting, and dropped him an email. It was like they’d been swept up in a tornado and deposited in Oz.

He found himself outside of Crusader House. He looked up at the building. More than a year had passed since the last time he was here. There was that strange twinge in his chest again. The one where he was always left thinking ‘but what if…’ He bit his lip. Maybe this was the worst idea in the world.

He got out of the car and walked towards the building. He was let in at the front door and walked up to Mycroft’s flat.

Anthea was there talking to the butler. “Detective Inspector,” she said frowning.

“Is Mycroft here?” Greg asked.

“Yes. But you can’t see him.”

Greg stuck his hands in his pockets. “Why the hell not?”

“He’s busy.”

“He’s always busy. I need to see him.”

“I’d rather you didn’t,” she said.

“But you’re going to let me, right?” He looked at her. Her face remained impassive, but she stepped aside as Greg walked past her and to the door of Mycroft’s flat. He let himself in.

He saw the back of Mycroft’s head from his place on the sofa. “Anthea!” Mycroft called irritably, not turning around.

Greg frowned and walked around to the other side of the room. He looked at Mycroft. He had a cut lip and a bruise on the side of his face which was going to almost certainly leave him with a black eye in the next day or so.

“What the fuck happened to you?” Greg asked.

Mycroft groaned. “What are you doing here?” he asked tiredly.

Anthea walked in to stand beside Greg. “He was persistent, Mr Holmes,” she said.

Greg raised his eyebrows at her. “You didn’t try very hard to stop me.”

Anthea rolled her eyes.

Mycroft shook his head and winced, like the smallest movement caused him pain. “What are you doing here?” he asked again.

“I came to ask where the hell Sherlock disappeared to,” Greg said, staring at him. “But what the hell happened to you?”

“I encountered a… difficulty,” Mycroft told him.

“Looks like a lot of difficulties to me.”

“Anthea,” Mycroft said, looking up at his assistant, P.A, whoever. “Leave us.”

She left the room without a word, retrieving her phone from her jacket pocket as she did so.

“What happened?” Greg asked when she closed the door. “Are you okay? Do you need anything?”

“It’s classified and yes and no.”

Greg snorted and took a seat on the sofa beside him. “You don’t look alright.”

“Then why ask?” Mycroft said irritably. There was almost a bit of a pout there.

“Please tell me the other guy looks worse.”

“He’s dead.”

Greg raised his eyebrows. “Right then. Well, yeah. I guess he does.” He looked at Mycroft. He was sat stiffly in the chair, one arm held gingerly in front of him. “Do you need anything? A drink?”

“No.” Greg stood up anyway and made for the kitchen. He heard Mycroft sigh. “Water. Please.”

Greg looked back and smiled at him before walking to the kitchen. He found the glasses with ease, an unfortunate reminder of what they had been to each other. He poured Mycroft a glass and carried it out to him.

Mycroft reached out and winced. Greg knelt down at his feet. “Hey. Let me help, yeah? Stop being so stubborn.” He held the glass up to Mycroft’s lips and Mycroft wrapped his hand around the base of it to steady it. His thumb wrapped over Greg’s little finger as they brought the glass to his mouth.

He took small sips, pain written on his face. Greg swallowed as he watched. He put the glass down on the side. “Tell me if you need anymore.”

Mycroft nodded a little.

“Where's Sherlock?” Greg asked.

“In America. Florida.”

“Why?”

“He's preventing a man being executed.”

Greg stared at him. “What? Why?”

“Because it is imperative this man doesn't die.”

“But why is Sherlock doing it?”

“Because I cannot do the job looking like this,” Mycroft said testily. “So I entrusted my brother.”

Greg raised his eyebrows. “Is that really a good idea?”

“We shall see.” Mycroft winced in pain, touching his stomach.

Greg studied him. “Have you slept yet?”

“No. Not for hours.”

“Alright.” Greg stood up. “Come on. Come with me, I’m getting you to bed.”

“I don’t need help,” Mycroft said stubbornly.

“Sure you don’t. I’m not helping. I’m just overseeing.” Greg held his arm out.

Mycroft began to stand unassisted, but then slumped back onto the sofa with a groan.

Greg held his arm out again. “Mycroft. Arm. Use it.”

Mycroft relented, one hand on the sofa, the other on Greg’s arm as he used it to haul himself out of the seat. To Greg’s shock he leaned into him, his body shaking.

“Alright,” Greg whispered. “Alright, come on. Don’t need to be strong, yeah? It’s just me.”

Mycroft nodded and allowed himself to be led to his bedroom. Greg pushed the door open. It was still the same as the last time he’d seen it. Don’t think about it. Just ignore what happened before.

He helped Mycroft to the bed and sat down at his feet, unfastening his shoes.

“I am not having you undress me,” Mycroft said.

Greg looked up at him and raised his eyebrows. “Go on then. Untie your own shoes.” Mycroft made to bend over but cried out in pain. “See?” Greg said. “And it’s not like I haven’t seen it before.”

He felt bad that he was being so brutal with him, but it was the only way he could imagine Mycroft would allow him to help. Greg took his shoes and then his socks off. He studied him. “Right. What hurts?”

Mycroft swallowed. “My left wrist is sprained. My right shoulder is painful, though, I don’t think too badly. I have bruising to my stomach and cuts on my back.”

Greg stared at him. “What the hell did you let someone do to you?”

“I didn’t _let_ anyone do anything.”

Greg shook his head. “Please just tell me you didn’t go to Iran.”

Mycroft looked up at him, his brows knitted together. “No, Greg. I did not go to Iran.”

“Good,” Greg muttered, though he knew deep down he had no right to ask Mycroft to keep that promise to him anymore. You will never owe me anything, Mycroft had said. Only fair if it was mutual.

Greg stood up and unfastened his jacket. He helped Mycroft ease it down his right arm and they worked together to take it off completely. Greg folded it and put it down on top of the chest of drawers. He pressed his lips together as he unfastened Mycroft’s tie.

Mycroft looked down at his knees. “It’s alright,” Greg whispered. “Just let me help.” He put the tie down and unfastened his cufflinks. He set to work on his waistcoat.

Mycroft let out a gasp in pain as they slid it off. “I’m sorry,” Greg cringed. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault.”

Greg folded it and looked at Mycroft. Shirt. Oh God. He stood between Mycroft’s legs and his hands shook a bit as he carefully unfastened every button. He tried his hardest not to touch his chest beneath the cotton.

He reached the last button and caught sight of the bruising. He recoiled. “Mycroft,” he murmured, shaking his head.

“I’m fine.”

Greg swallowed. He carefully slid Mycroft’s shirt off.

“I guess you can do your own trousers?” he asked.

Mycroft nodded and unfastened his belt. Greg pulled back the covers. He helped Mycroft stand as he stepped out of his trousers.

“Greg? I believe a wound of my back needs redressing,” Mycroft said quietly, almost sounding ashamed.

Greg frowned at him and sat on the bed to peer at Mycroft’s back. He closed his eyes the second he saw it. He swallowed and opened his eyes again. Three horizontal dressings crossed over Mycroft’s back. Whoever had injured him had somehow avoided the five other scars, the remnants of Mycroft’s torture in Iran. Greg had never asked about it. It pained him now to see it again, fresh and renewed. “Okay. Okay,” Greg whispered, standing up. “You got a first aid kit?”

“En suite under the sink.”

Greg nodded and got up. He found it and looked in the mirror as he washed his hands. He was struggling, he realised. Struggling with seeing that man in so much pain, struggling with the idea that it wasn’t the first time and probably wouldn’t be the last.

Greg returned with the first aid box. He didn’t ask any questions. Not because he didn’t want to know the answers, but because he thought he might fall apart if he heard them.

He was treading over tricky moral ground in his mind. The ground where he knew it was wrong to kill someone. The ground where he knew he was bloody glad the man who had hurt Mycroft was dead. He deserved it, for this crime alone.

Mycroft hadn’t moved from his position on the bed and Greg sat behind him. He touched Mycroft’s shoulder lightly and the man flinched.

Greg bit his lip. “It’s okay,” he murmured, rubbing that spot in a very slow circle with his fingertips. “It’s okay, it’s only me.” He’d dealt with victims before. He’d seen their physical pain, but he very rarely saw the aftermath of it. The mental anguish manifested in physical reactions. Mycroft relaxed a bit to his touch.

Greg carefully peeled away the first dressing. He squeezed his eyes shut. Oh God. He looked again, and tried to detach himself from it.

“Mycroft. I don’t know if I can do this. Can I get Anthea?”

“No. No, she doesn’t know.”

Greg swallowed. “Okay. Okay, it’s alright.”

“I’m sorry,” Mycroft said, his voice lost somewhere.

“No, shh, it’s okay. I can do this. I just. Well, I thought the bruises were bad.” He opened the first aid kit and found the disinfectant. “If this stings, I am so sorry.”

“I think you can see I’ve encountered worse,” Mycroft said. Greg pulled a face, though he knew Mycroft couldn’t see it. “Ah. Too soon to joke?”

“A bit, yeah.”

Greg put some of the cream on a piece of cotton wool. He pressed it gently to the wound. Mycroft’s body tensed. Greg bit his lip. “I’m sorry,” he said.

He didn’t know what made him do it. But he wrapped an arm around Mycroft’s body and found his hand. He laced their fingers together.

He carefully dabbed the cream against the top wound and Mycroft’s fingers tightened then loosened against his. He reluctantly let go of Mycroft’s hand as he retrieved a dressing from the box. He kept the contact as light as he could as he covered it.

“How did you keep this from Anthea?” Greg asked.

“I doubt I did successfully. But she hasn’t said anything.”

Greg nodded and took the second dressing off. The wound had crossed over one of Mycroft’s scars a bit. Greg imagined this one would scar too. He was glad it was on Mycroft’s back where he couldn’t see them to live with them every day.

“You’ve got someone to talk to, yeah?” Greg asked. “About this.”

Mycroft stayed quiet.

“’Cause you can talk to me. If you need to. If you find it hard to deal with anytime. Just. Just call me. Anytime.” Greg bit his lip to try and make himself shut up. Right now he thought he was probably the one who needed to talk about it rather than Mycroft.

He offered Mycroft his hand again and the other man took it without a question as he disinfected the cut. This one was the worse. It bled a bit and Mycroft hissed with pain. “I’m so sorry,” Greg said. He felt like he was saying it for both of them.

“I don’t know what- ah.” Mycroft flinched. “I don’t know what I’d have done if you hadn’t arrived.”

Greg squeezed his fingers. “Anthea would have done this for you.”

“It’s hard enough to stop Anthea worrying about me at times without her seeing this.”

“It’s because she cares about you.” But I care about you too, he thought. And yet, it meant something that Mycroft let him help. He’d rather be here, right now, than if he had no idea and Anthea was sorting it. He didn’t know if this was the issue Sherlock had talked about - his need to ‘save people’.

Well, if all he cared about was saving people then he wasn’t doing it very well. Sherlock was up and down like a bloody fairground ride and Greg had no idea if he was coming and going with him and Mycroft was getting smacked around and - what? Whipped? Cut? Last month, he had three victims turn up in Kensington, and he’d had to watch their families break down around him. So, no. Greg wasn’t saving people. He couldn’t even manage to save the people he cared about very well at all.

He squeezed Mycroft’s hand and then let go to dress the second cut. “One more to go,” he said, peeling off the third and final dressing on Mycroft’s lower back. Okay. Greg had to ignore everything which had gone before. This was definitely the worst.

“Greg?” Mycroft said quietly.

“Yeah?”

“I am so sorry I made you see this.”

Greg swallowed and shook his head and then realised Mycroft couldn’t see him. “No, don’t. It’s alright.” He didn’t know why he did it. He thought later, perhaps he shouldn’t have done. But he pressed his forehead to Mycroft’s shoulder, offering him his hand again.

Mycroft took it, their palms pressing together. Greg moved a bit closer to him. They sat like that for a while. Exchanging body heat and comfort. Friends, friends, friends, we’re friends and this is what friends do. Greg knew he would have done this for Sally. He would have done this for Sam. He would have done this for any of his team, without it meaning anything more than friendship. They were friends. Just friends. What went on before was past.

“I was so very lucky,” Mycroft murmured. “I thought no one knew where I was. Drugged in the middle of the night, and I was unprepared.”

Greg bit his lip and squeezed Mycroft’s hand. He didn’t want to hear it. But he stayed quiet anyway. Giving Mycroft the space he needed to talk.

“I’ve dealt with the punching and kicking before,” Mycroft said, his voice distant.

Greg closed his eyes.

“It’s the whipping which is the worst. The sound, the noise, the waiting for the pain. I haven’t slept since. You’ve had Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, Greg, you know how it is.”

Greg frowned. “What? I haven’t.”

“Undiagnosed, then. The nightmares, Greg. You’ve had it. More than once. Perhaps you still do, I’m not in a position to know how often the nightmares strike you.”

Greg shook his head. “I don’t… I had them after the Thames, sure. But I don’t have them all the time. It’s not Post Traumatic Stress. I’ve always had nightmares. Since I was a kid.”

“All children have nightmares, Greg. The fact you have had them so regularly as an adult is a possible symptom of PTSD. I’m surprised the force hasn’t told you to get treatment.”

“I never talked about it, Mycroft,” Greg muttered. “It’s just you. You and Caroline and Jane. You’re the only people who know about them.”

Mycroft squeezed his fingers. “And you are the only person who has seen the scars on my back. Not even Anthea knows.” Greg bit his lip. “No more leg-work,” Mycroft said quietly. “This is it. I’m finished with it. I am more than capable of working from London and there are far younger agents who could do almost as well.”

Greg nodded, brushing his lips against Mycroft’s shoulder before he could catch himself doing it. He frowned to himself and mentally told himself off. “I think that’s good,” Greg said. “I’m bloody glad, actually.” He frowned. “I just mean,” he started quickly. “I just mean, you’re too good at your job for this country to lose.”

“I understand.”

You’re too important to me too. Greg couldn’t say it. Couldn’t bear it. “Let me disinfect this cut, yeah?”

Mycroft nodded and let go of his hand. Greg put the cream on another piece of cotton wool as he carefully cleaned the wound. He kept his other hand on Mycroft’s shoulder, stroking his skin.

He dressed the final cut. He touched Mycroft’s shoulder. “Alright,” Greg said. “It’s done.” He cleared away the kit and got up from the bed. He carried it through to the bathroom.

When he returned, Mycroft was under the sheets and Greg closed the curtains for him.

“Greg?”

“Yeah?”

“Can you please stay for a moment?”

Greg nodded. “Of course.” Of course he would. As though he would ever leave Mycroft’s side when he was vulnerable and in pain. He took a seat on the side of the bed. Mycroft closed his eyes. Greg put his hand on top of Mycroft’s and left it there.

“Greg,” Mycroft murmured tiredly.

“Shh. Sleep.” Greg touched Mycroft’s hair. He stroked the soft strands. Mycroft’s breathing softened.

Greg swallowed as he looked at him as he slept. So fragile, so broken. He leaned down and brushed his lips against his temple. “Sleep,” he whispered and stood up, walking to the door.

He left Crusader House with a heavy heart.

 

* * *

 

After the fourth Kensington body, Greg locked himself in a room with Sally as they poured over everything the could about the bodies. Nothing linked them at all.

They had to solve it. Since the third victim, Greg had spent every Tuesday and Wednesday always on edge, expecting a call that another had been found. He was difficult to be around on those days.

“It’s just weird that it’s always a Tuesday,” Greg said. “That’s only pattern to it. Like someone just goes along that route once a week or something.”

“Like they’re leaving work?” Sally asked.

“Yeah, but only once a week. Like a regular postal delivery. But the murders all happen at night.”

Sally picked up one of the crime scene photographs. Greg looked over her shoulder.

“Like rubbish collections,” he murmured. “You know. The sort that happens at night when the businesses all leave their bags out on the street.”

Sally stared at him.

The next Tuesday, they caught him and it was glorious. The man was a refuse collector. Much to Greg’s disgust, his prime motive was boredom. Sally muttered something about how it reminded her of a certain consulting detective, finding pleasure in dead bodies because he was bored. Greg ignored the comment.

Greg was promptly made the Met’s new performing monkey, where he was pushed towards the press room to explain how they’d caught the man. He felt uneasy in front of the waiting journalists.

That was the first time his face had been in the paper. He sent a copy to his dad. He liked things like that.

 

* * *

 

_May, 2008_

Mycroft came by Greg’s office out of the blue when he was having a clear out of old paperwork. Greg looked up and smiled at him. He was carrying an umbrella, with a red tie today.

“Alright?” Greg asked.

Mycroft took a seat. “Quite well, thank you.”

Greg sat down opposite. “What’s up?”

“Sherlock is driving me to distraction.”

Greg grinned at him. “Sounds familiar. You want to go and grab some coffee and let off some steam?”

“I have no need to let off any steam,” Mycroft said.

Greg laughed. “No, but I do, and I could bloody well use one. Come on. Just half an hour, you’re here anyway. Unless you were here for something else?”

Mycroft shook his head. “I had a meeting with your Commander, but he cancelled at the last minute.”

Greg grinned and grabbed his sunglasses. “Let’s find a cafe, yeah? Be good to have a catch-up.”

“Very well,” Mycroft said.

Greg laughed. “Could be more enthusiastic about it.”

“I am,” Mycroft said, but his impassive expression did not change.

Greg raised his eyebrows, but followed the other man through the Yard. Mycroft led them to the front where his car was waiting. He opened the door and Greg slid in and looked at him. “I was only going to take you down the road,” Greg grinned.

“There’s a tea room around the corner,” Mycroft said as he got in.

Greg laughed. “We’re going in the car for a place around the corner? You’re really doing your bit for the environment.”

Mycroft raised his eyebrows.

“Okay fine, I’m not the most environmentally-friendly either,” Greg conceded. “Someone mentioned the idea of a paperless office once, and they were never heard from again.” He grinned. “Honestly, if I had to do half the stuff I do on paper on the computer, I think it would be chucked out of the window after an hour.”

“I suppose violence against technology is preferable to violence against the person,” Mycroft said.

Greg laughed. “Oh God, don’t tell me the Government is going to start legislating on technology-violence. Like computer mice have feelings too.”

Mycroft’s eyebrows rose again.

“Come on, Mycroft, lighten up a bit. I haven’t seen you laugh in ages.” Greg opened the door and got out of the car. “Work not good?” he asked.

“Work is fine. Constantly busy.”

“Still expanding your job title?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

Greg led them through to the tea rooms, and they found a table in the corner beside a bookshelf. Mycroft ordered a pot of tea, Greg a coffee and a toasted tea cake.

“So how did Sherlock’s trip to sunny America go?” Greg asked, putting his sunglasses on the top of his head.

“Ghastly.”

“What happened?”

“He ensured the death of the man he was supposed to have saved.”

Greg stared at him. “Wow. That really didn’t go to plan.”

“Quite.”

“Cause any problems?”

Mycroft frowned. “Frank Hudson was going to provide information on international drug smuggling in return for his life. We, and the Americans, believed it would aid in the capture of several cartels and gangs operating on both sides of the Atlantic.”

Greg pulled a face. “And they executed him?”

“The evidence Sherlock provided on a double murder was too conclusive not to.”

Greg rolled his eyes. “I don’t even know what to suggest with him anymore. You know he’s become even more picky about my cases? Apparently people are going to  _him_  for cases now, so he’s only going to come to me when he’s either so bored he’s about to dose himself on drugs or when I’ve got one acceptably interesting.”

“I can only apologise for suggesting he get his own clients.”

“It’s not your fault. I’d rather he was busy than constantly pissing off my team.”

Their food and drinks were brought over to them.

“Anymore on the MORnetwork?” Greg asked.

“No. We believe it’s operating under a different name. Or no name at all.”

Greg buttered his tea cake. “You’ll figure it out.”

“And how is your work? I read about the Kensington Ripper.”

Greg rolled his eyes. “I’m so angry the papers were calling it that I can’t even tell you. But yeah, we sorted it. Another case Sherlock decided he was too important to get involved with.”

“Sherlock is no longer talking to me after I rather lambasted him for the American case.”

Greg grinned. “He’s willing to dish it out but he’s not willing to take it.”

“Yes, life continues very much as normal as far as my brother is concerned.”  

“He’s grown up a bit since I first met him. Not a lot. But a bit.”

“Has he?” Mycroft asked, looking sceptical.

Greg laughed. “Come on, Mycroft, have a bit of faith in him. When I first met him, he was quite happy to shove a needle in his arm while I was in the room. I don’t think he’d do that now.”

“At least he allows you a key.”

“Bloody lucky he does since it probably saved his life.”

“I never properly thanked you for attending to him that day.”

Greg shook his head. “You don’t need to. If he text me now to say he was in trouble I’d go to him. He knows it too.”

“When are you getting married?”

Greg frowned, surprised Mycroft knew. He had no idea what could have given him away, but he answered anyway. “Not set a date yet. I’m leaving it all up to her. I think it’ll be small, she’s not a big fan of weddings.”

“Many congratulations,” Mycroft said. His voice was genuine, but while most people smiled to offer their congratulations, he didn’t. Greg didn’t even remember the last time he’d seen his face light up, even the slightest bit.

Greg nodded. “Cheers. Must be crazy to do it again.”

“Not at all.”

Greg looked down at his coffee. He bit his lip. He decided to say what was on his mind. “You know, you said to me once that I didn’t have many friends. Not outside work anyway, and you were right. And for a long time, you were the best friend I had.” He looked up at him. “I don’t know if you can call us colleagues or what, but if we can still be mates then I’d like that.”

“Do you believe I go to lunch with just anyone?”

Greg smiled. “I don’t, no. Make me a deal, Mycroft? Assuming you’re in the country, if you need to take any of my files, you’ll come to me yourself. Not send Anthea or a minion.”

“I will do my very best.”

Greg nodded. “All I ask.”

Mycroft looked down at his pocket watch. “I’m terribly sorry, I have another meeting.”

Greg shook his head. “Don’t worry. Talk soon, yeah?”

“Of course.”

Greg sipped his coffee and watched him walk away. He couldn’t place the reason he was feeling so uncomfortable. 


	38. History, Like Blood, Is Never Enough

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Mice, skeptic7, Jaeh, day_dream_girl, cosmicsoup221b, JustLookFrightenedAndScuttle, mycroftson, vanya, MoonRiver, ivefoundmygoldfish (melonpanparade), OwlinAutumn, KingTaran, Jill, MisplacedLonelyHeartsAd and WhiskeySally :-) Love you all.

_June, 2008_

Jane and Greg sat on a park bench during one of his lunch breaks on a Saturday. She had brought him coffee and a sandwich. It was days like this, in the sun, when Greg was grateful he only lived a quick walk from the Yard.

Jane had her notebook out as she tried to pull together a wedding invitation list.

“Colleagues?” she asked.

Greg pulled a face. “I don’t know who will be around. With shifts and stuff. Sally and Sam leap out. Carter, if he’s available.”

“Other friends?”

Greg frowned. “Other friends?”

“Yeah. Other friends.”

“Um. Couple of football blokes, I guess. Marc, Paul. That’s it really, we just kick a ball about. Not really wedding inviting material.”

“University?”

“Carol and Peter.”

“What about Sherlock?”

Greg laughed. “Add him to the list, but he won’t come.”

“And most importantly, family?”

“Dad and Rosa.”

Jane looked down at her list. “Greg, that’s only 10 people. I’ve got 43 on my list.”

“That’s fine. Oh, add Caroline and her husband. She made me go to her wedding, only fair she comes to ours.”

“She’s on my list already.”

“Oh.”

“Is there really no one else?” she asked.

Greg shook his head. “No. Well.” He frowned. Mycroft? He bit his lip. Might be awkward to have his ex there. Then again, Jane didn’t know it was his ex, and even if he didn’t come, it seemed only fair to invite him. “Add Mycroft Holmes to the list. He’s Sherlock’s brother and we’ve worked together a bit. We’ve gone for drinks a couple of times in the past.” Not exactly a lie…

“Okay… so that is… 11 people.” She looked up at him and frowned. “How have you only got 11 people, babe? You’re the loveliest man in the world.”

Greg laughed. “I don’t really get that close to people.”

“So I’m the exception who proved the rule?”

“Yeah, pretty much.” Hm. Not so much really. Mycroft was the real exception. Why was he thinking about Mycroft again? He had a serious problem. It wasn’t even like he was thinking about him in a romantic sense, it was just the man popped into his head at times. Greg had to stop doing that.

“So. With your family, it really just is your dad and Rosa?” Jane asked.

“Yeah, well, I never really got close to the extended family. Dad doesn’t really talk to mum’s side and I haven’t since I was 18. And then I don’t really talk to dad’s brother either.”

Jane closed her notebook. “Have you ever done any research on your birth parents?”

“No, never.”

“How come?”

Greg shrugged, not really keen on talking about it. “Doesn’t seem any sense in knowing. It won’t make any difference to my life.”

“Really? I think it would make a massive difference to know who they were.”

“I don’t think there’s a happy ending to that story however it goes.”

Jane threw a ball for Louis. “You never know. I find it fascinating. I don’t think I could deal with not knowing. I’d have to find out.”

“We’re just different, Jane.”

“Yeah, true story that one. 11 people though, hun. Is there really no one else?”

“Nope. I’m fine with 11. Even if one of them definitely won’t come.”

“He might surprise you.”

Greg snorted. “Sherlock surprises me alright. And not in a good way.”

Jane laughed.

Greg looked at his watch. “I’ve got to go back to work.” He kissed her quickly and got up. “Hopefully I won’t be too late.”

She smiled. “I’ve got 54 wedding invitations to write. I’ve got plenty to keep me busy.”

Greg smiled at her and walked back to the Yard. What was everyone’s obsession with family anyway? He’d done alright without one for 12 years, and got by quite happily with a semblance of one for the rest of them. He was quite happy with his large number of friendly acquaintances and a few, true, great friends. Even if some of them wouldn’t come to his wedding.

 

* * *

 

_July, 2008_

The ceremony itself was a quiet affair, attended only by Greg and Jane’s immediate family members. Greg didn’t wear jeans – although Jane insisted he could if he really wanted to. She wore a dark green knee-high dress.

Jane had done much of the organising, but in true low-key fashion, for the party venue she had chosen the football pitches and clubhouse where Greg usually played. They’d pulled the chairs and tables outside, with a bar inside the club’s marquee.

Sam Brockhurst had become quite overprotective of his Chief Barbecuer status, running a tight ship and keeping an eye on wandering hands hoping to steal a sausage.

Greg sat down with his dad and Rosa. Jane was introducing herself to Greg’s colleagues, and making quite an impression. Greg couldn’t help but watch her. Her smile was infectious, and she had a way of making people open up without a second thought.

“I like her,” Greg’s dad said, watching as she mingled. She was talking to Caroline and her new husband, looking down at baby Brandon as though he was a bomb which might explode. “Friendly, lively, smiley.”

Greg smiled. “Glad to get the seal of approval.”

“I like her too,” Rosa said, sipping her champagne. “Not so sure about her mother.”

Greg laughed. “Yeah, I know.”

“What are you doing for the honeymoon?”

“Actually, dad, I wanted to ask you about that.”

Mr Lestrade looked at him. “Oh?”

“We were thinking we’d like to go and stay at the farm for a few days. And then we’d get the Eurostar, nip across to Bruges and Brussels and then come back to London.”

“You’d like to stay with us in Normandy?” he asked.

Greg nodded. “If you’re happy with that then, yeah. You keep asking me to come and it shouldn’t have taken me this long.”

“Of course. When?”

“Next month.”

Mr Lestrade nodded. “You are always welcome. Of course, please come.”

Jane wandered over, kicking her heels off. “I am done with these shoes. I keep sinking into the grass. I don’t think the football team’s going to thank me much. How is everyone? More champagne?”

“No, thank you, dear,” Mr Lestrade said, smiling.

She grinned and sipped her drink. “I’m feeling a bit wooey already and I’ve only had two glasses.”

Greg laughed. “I’d tell you to get some food, but I don’t think Sam’s letting anyone near that barbecue yet.”

“He’s doing an excellent job,” Jane said. “I love Sally, Greg. You should have introduced us ages ago, she’s absolutely fantastic.”

Greg laughed. “Sorry.”

“No Sherlock?”

Greg grinned. “Course not. He didn’t even RSVP. I didn’t expect him to show up.”

Jane smiled back and shuffled her chair closer to his. “Damn shame. I was excited to meet him.”

“Who’s Sherlock?” Mr Lestrade asked.

“He’s this bloke who comes and consults for the Met sometimes,” Greg explained. “Not for money, just because he’s good at it and thinks it’s fun.”

“Is that allowed, dear?” Rosa asked, drinking her Pimms.

Greg frowned a bit. Not really. “Strictly it’s a bit unusual. It’s an unusual set of circumstances. He’s a genius. That’s the only way I can explain it.”

“But he’s not come to the wedding?”

Greg smiled. “We’re not exactly friends. He doesn’t really seem to do friends. I like him. But it’s probably better he’s not here.”

“Greg told me he can take one look at you and work out everything about your life,” Jane said. “Personally, I think Greg’s making it up, but I am very curious about meeting him.”

“He sounds a strange one,” Mr Lestrade said.

“So, how long have you been together?” Jane asked.

“Five years,” Mr Lestrade said, smiling at Rosa. “I never believed I would find another woman to fit the spaces in my life. But I have and she is wonderful.”

Rosa flushed. “You’re too sweet.”

“What’s the key to a successful relationship then?” Jane asked.

Mr Lestrade patted Jane’s arm. “Communicate. It’s all about communicating, dear. That’s the key to any marriage.”

Jane smiled and drank her champagne. “I think we can manage that one. I could talk for the entire country, given the opportunity. In fact-”

“Barbecue! Orderly queue!” Sam shouted.

Jane laughed and patted Greg on the shoulder. “I am going to grab myself some food before I fall over in a champagne-related catastrophe. Please excuse me a second.”

She walked barefoot over to the food table. Greg smiled as he watched her. He had just married that woman. And she didn’t half make him happy. 

 

* * *

 

  _August, 2008_

Greg wheeled their suitcase up to the farmhouse in the heart of Normandy. It was red-brick, set in the centre of an array of green fields. Jane gasped as she got a proper look at it. “Oh, it’s beautiful,” she said. “I can’t believe your dad and Rosa live here, it’s stunning! Oh look, it’s got blue shutters on the windows!”

Greg laughed. “Yeah.”

“How long has he lived here?”

“Since I was 20,” Greg said. “Dad’s brother used to live here, but he moved to Calais.”

“So, did you ever come here?” Jane asked as they reached the door.

“A couple of holidays, yeah, when I was a kid.” Greg knocked on the door.

Rosa answered with a beaming smile. “Come in, isn’t it a lovely day?” She kissed them both on each cheek, gesturing them into the hallway. “I have just put the kettle on. Or will you have something cold?”

“Cold would be great thanks,” Greg said.

“Lemonade?”

“Brilliant,” Greg agreed, and Jane nodded.

“Me too please, thank you.”

“Come on in,” Rosa gestured, beaming at them both. “Your father is just with the chickens,” she laughed. “I have some cakes in the kitchen.”

They both followed Rosa through, Jane admiring the house. “Oh, this amazing,” she said, looking around. Greg walked to the window and looked out to the garden and the fields.

 

* * *

 

After dinner, Greg and his father sat down by the lake at the end of the garden. The sun was beginning to come down, and Greg pulled a jumper on. Mr Lestrade passed Greg a packet of cigarettes. They smoked for a while in silence.

“Your mother hated this place,” Mr Lestrade said. “She said it was too quiet.”

Greg smiled a bit. “Yeah. I agree. I like noise too.”

“She said it made her feel like she was sat waiting for something to happen rather than making it happen herself. Me, I like the quiet. When you had nightmares as a child, we used to leave the radio on for you. It seemed to help.”

Greg smiled a bit. “I kind of remember.”

“Don’t you wonder about your parents, Greg?”

Greg frowned at the change in topic. “No.”

“Truly?”

“Yeah. Never.”

“I do,” Mr Lestrade said, watching as a duck took to the water.

“Why?”

“I wondered where you really belonged,” his dad said.

Greg just shook his head and drank his whiskey.

“Don’t you?” Mr Lestrade asked.

“No. No, I don’t.”

“It’s your blood, Greg. It’s your DNA.”

Greg shook his head. “Yeah. It’s just… stuff. It doesn’t mean anything. Knowing doesn’t change the last 40 years of my life.”

“I often wonder what happened, Greg. What if they are still alive?”

“Why would I want to know them if they were? They gave me up. I wouldn’t want to give them the time of day.”

Greg looked across the water to where Rosa was showing Jane the gardens.

“That woman has never fit in anywhere in her entire life, has she?” Mr Lestrade said, watching Jane too. “She’s a butterfly. She never finds a place to settle. You’ll regret not knowing, Greg. One day you’ll wish you’d done it. When you have children-”

“-I’m not having kids.” He took a long sip of his whiskey.

“And did you ever stop to think that’s because you simply don’t have a home? Have you ever truly settled, Greg? Have you ever looked at yourself and thought this is precisely where I’m supposed to be?”

Greg frowned and watched Jane bend down to stroke the Rosa’s cat. Yeah, he’d thought about it. Wondered. But not often. Not if he could help it.

“This is my home, Greg,” Mr Lestrade continued. “Normandy. My family for generations came from this very town. But where your mother was, that was my home. Ever since I met her, she was my whole world. Finding out about your birth parents is merely a suggestion, Greg. From my heart to yours.” Mr Lestrade looked at Jane. “She’s a wonderful woman. She’s desperate for someone to love her.”

Greg nodded. “I know.”

“But I can’t help but feel you’re both clinging to each other in the hopes you can miraculously build yourselves a home.”

Greg frowned. “You can’t just sit and analyse my relationship. We’ve just got married. I love her.”

“I know. But what is it built on, Greg? Have you told her everything?”

“She knows I was adopted.”

“Does she know the circumstances?”

“I don’t even know the circumstances, how the hell would she know?”

“Greg, I’ve told you the story we were told when we adopted you.”

“Of being left in a hospital, yes, I know. I know.”

“And have you told her?” Greg’s dad asked.

Greg shook his head, exasperated. “What does it matter? Why do you have to drag it up every single time we sit here - in this exact place - and have the same conversation?”

“Because you are completely unwilling to tell your own wife about your life. You were the same with Caroline.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’ve moved on. I moved on. Okay? I don’t care who my birth parents are, it’s just blood.”

“Is it?”

Greg glanced at him. “Best case scenario is that they’re dead. Because if they’re alive, they never wanted me. Didn’t even want me enough to leave a note to say what my last name or date or birth was.”

“It bothers you, Greg. It bothers you more than you’re willing to admit.” Greg frowned and finished his drink before lighting another cigarette. “Just think about it.”

Greg nodded. “Fine. Fine, I will think about it.”

Mr Lestrade nodded. “Thank you.”

 

* * *

 

Greg and Jane had a wonderful time in Belgium. Greg thought had hadn’t drunk so much great beer or eaten so much in his entire life. He was almost sorry to leave.

 

* * *

 

  _September, 2008_

Greg looked up when PC Leon Henman knocked hesitantly on his office door. Greg gestured him in and he closed it behind him. “You alright?” Greg asked.

Leon took a seat, frowning. “Yeah, fine.”

Greg narrowed his eyes at him. “Come on. Out with it.”

Leon sighed. “I just broke the news to Mr Blucas.”

“Ah.”

“It was difficult. Affected me,” Leon admitted. “Any tips?”

Greg shook his head. “I wish I did. I wish there was an easy way, but there’s not. You just have to be upfront and honest.”

Leon nodded. “Yeah, I did that. It was his mum, you know?”

“I know,” Greg said. “But we’ll solve the case and it won’t make it easier, but it’ll help him a bit.”

Leon swallowed. “Sorry, boss. Sergeant Donovan told me to speak to you if I needed advice and-”

Greg held his hand up. “It’s alright. I’m not an ogre. You can come in here and ask me anything you want, any time.”

“He only knew her eight months. He was adopted, and they were just…” Leon frowned. “They were just getting close.”

Greg swallowed. There had been a reason he’d been avoiding the case and asking Sally to oversee it. “How is everything else?” Greg asked. “At work?”

Leon nodded. “Really good. I’m glad Pip started at the same time, because we’re able to compare notes a lot. I definitely made the right decision coming here.”

Greg smiled across at him. “You’re a good policeman. I’m glad to have you on board.”

Leon stood and smiled back. “Thanks. And thanks for your time. I’m sorry I got a bit emotional with the victim’s family, it won’t happen again.”

Greg shook his head. “It’s alright to be affected by it. Not in front of the family really, you have to be empathetic but not get too involved. But after. You know, talk it through with a colleague or friends.”

“My dad used to be policeman. He’s retired now, but we talk about it a lot.”

Greg smiled. “That’s great.”

Leon nodded. “Yeah, it’s what family’s for. Cheers, boss.” He turned and walked out of the room.

Greg watched as he closed the door and he reached into his jacket pocket for his packet of cigarettes. He left the office to stand by the bike rack as he lit up.

He’d been hearing that word a lot lately. Family. Either that or he’d just been aware of it in conversations and noticing it more. Family.

He had a new one of those now, but there was a question mark forming in his head which he’d never really felt before. A question mark about whose child he was. And why they gave him up. He bit his lip and took his phone out of his pocket as he stamped out his cigarette. He scrolled through his contacts until he found Mycroft’s number.

“Mycroft Holmes,” he answered.

Greg swallowed. “Hi. I want to ask a favour.”

“Of course.”

“You said once you could look my birth parents up for me. Will you… will you see what you can do?”

There was a pause down the line before Mycroft spoke. “Are you sure?” he asked.

Greg bit his lip. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m sure.”

“Very well.”

“I’ll email you everything I know about the home and stuff to help you out.”

“Are you certain you want me to do this?” Mycroft asked.

Greg took a long breath. “Not really. But do it. Please.”

“Of course. I’ll let you know what I find out as soon as I have some information.”

“Mycroft?”

“Yes?”

“Just you, yeah? Please don’t get anyone else involved.”

“I promise.”

“Thank you.”

“I will be in contact soon.” Mycroft hung up. Greg frowned. He felt like he was closer to an answer now. And somehow, though nervous, it brought him some relief to think he would eventually know.

 

* * *

 

_October, 2008_

Greg was still at work at 7.21pm when Mycroft knocked on the door. Greg smiled up at him and he walked in with an umbrella in hand. He was carrying a folder under the other arm.

Greg stood up to greet him. “Hey. Want a coffee? I was just thinking of making one for myself.”

“No. Thank you.” Mycroft sat down and put a folder down on the desk.

Greg looked down at it as he walked around to pour himself a coffee. “That’s it then? The stuff about my… you know.”

Mycroft pressed his lips together and nodded.

Greg swallowed. He put some milk in his mug and stirred it. He walked back around to his chair. He stared at the folder and then at Mycroft’s face. “Just give it to me straight, Mycroft. I’d rather hear it from you.”

“Are you sure?”

“No,” Greg laughed, but it wasn’t a genuine one. “But do it anyway. Are they alive?”

“No.”

Greg nodded. Somehow that was better. “Go on.”

“Your name is Greg Knight, and you were born on November 14, 1966.”

Greg bit his lip. He took hold of his desk, looking down at his hands. His real birthday was a few weeks out then.

“You were left in Epsom and St Helier University Hospital with a note with your name and age on. You were four months old, according to the piece of paper. And it also said you had been born at that particular hospital. I used the information to track down your birth certificate.”

Greg looked up at Mycroft. His voice was almost mechanical, but Greg could see the concern written on his face. Greg nodded at him to continue.

“Your mother was called Connie Knight and she was 22 when she had you. We believe she left you at the hospital a week before she was due to give evidence in court against your father. She was killed two days after giving that evidence.”

Greg swallowed. “What… what did he do?”

“He was involved in a crime syndicate in the East End of London.”

Greg rubbed his face. “And, how did he…?”

“Died just after leaving prison in 1982.”

“How?”

“Heart attack.”

Greg nodded. “Right.”

“I’m sorry.”

“So that’s that then. My d-” Greg swallowed. He couldn’t say the word ‘dad’. He was not his father. Not really. “He was a criminal and she was… trying to do the right thing. Do they have any living relatives?”

Mycroft shook his head. “Only very distantly.”

“And me,” Greg murmured. He sipped his coffee and burnt his mouth. He winced. He stared down at his desk.

“I am quite certain she gave you away to protect you,” Mycroft murmured. “I know that offers little comfort.”

Greg shook his head. “It does. A bit.” He couldn’t understand why he felt this way about two people he didn’t even know. At the same time, he couldn’t understand why he hardly felt anything at all.

“What can I do?” Mycroft asked.

Greg looked at him. “Do?”

“I cancelled my meetings for this evening in case you wanted to spend some time talking. But if you would prefer I leave, then please, say.”

Greg stared across at him. An evening with Mycroft sounded like the perfect antidote while he tried to let this news settle in. “Want to go get a drink somewhere?”

“Certainly.”

Greg stood up and looked down at the folder. “What’s in here?”

“Everything I could find. Your birth certificate, your parents’ birth certificates, court summons, census records, newspaper cuttings.”

Greg nodded and picked it up, putting it in the bottom drawer of his desk. “I’ll look at it at some point.”

Mycroft picked his umbrella up as he stood. “I’m terribly sorry.”

Greg shook his head. “I asked you to do this. I knew it wasn’t going to be good.” He put his coat on.

Mycroft held the door open for him and Greg walked out. He led the way through the Yard’s offices through to the exit. “Where’d you want to go?”

“I’ll take you to The Luggage Room in Mayfair.”

Greg nodded. “Sounds good.” He slid into the car and Mycroft got in after him.

Mycroft leaned forward and gave his driver instructions. Greg let out a shaky breath. Mycroft looked over at him. “If you would prefer to go home, I can take you there.”

Greg shook his head. “No. I’m alright. I could use a drink. So, what’s The Baggage Room?

“Luggage. It’s a bar, quiet and fairly exclusive. They regularly have musicians. I remember how you enjoyed the piano in Covent Garden.”

Greg swallowed. “Yeah, I did,” he said. “That guy was pretty good.”

“He was fairly average, but you were quite mesmerised.”

Greg glanced at Mycroft and managed a smile. “He was average, huh?”

“To my ears, certainly.”

Greg snorted. “Cheers, Mycroft. You know how to make a guy feel good about himself.”

“I’m sorry.”

Greg laughed, and shook his head. “Don’t, it’s alright. You’re cheering me up at the same time as insulting me. Quite a skill you’ve got there.”

“One I have perfected over the years, I assure you.”

Greg smiled and looked at him.

“How are you feeling?” Mycroft asked.

Greg shrugged. “Bit numb really.”

“If there is anything I can do, say the word.”

“You’re doing it already.”

Greg looked out of the window as the car pulled to a stop. He looked around but couldn’t see a bar. “Are we here?” he asked.

“We are,” Mycroft said, stepping out. Greg frowned and did the same. Mycroft walked towards a black door. Greg followed. Mycroft tapped a few times and a shutter in the door opened.

“Name?” a woman asked.

“Mycroft Holmes.”

A few moments later, the door opened. “Come in, Mr Holmes.”

Greg stared and followed him in. This was a bar? He followed Mycroft up some stairs, and into an opulent room, with white walls and dark brown leather seats. Mycroft led him to the bar.

“Mr Holmes,” the barman said. “The usual?”

Mycroft turned to Greg. “Would you like to share a bottle of wine with a cheese board?”

Greg grinned at him. “Wine and cheese?” He laughed. “Yeah, go on then.”

Mycroft handed some money over. “I’ll bring it to your table,” the barman said.

“This way,” Mycroft murmured, and Greg followed, looking around. A woman was playing the piano in the far corner. Mycroft led him to a secluded corner on the other side of the room. Greg took a seat and Mycroft sat down opposite.

The barman brought over a bottle and some glasses. Mycroft tried the wine, gave it the seal of approval, and their glasses were poured out.

“How was your honeymoon?” Mycroft asked.

“It was good, thanks.”

“Where did you go?”

“France, and then Bruges and Brussels.”

“Bruges is wonderful, did you go up the belfry?”

“I did, she didn’t. Jane’s afraid of heights.”

Mycroft nodded and sipped his wine. “I enjoyed the waffles rather too much.”

Greg laughed. “Yeah, me too. I think I ate too much full stop.”

“You don’t look it.”

Greg grinned and looked down at the table. “Well. Thanks. I’ve had sometime to work it off chasing criminals and stuff.”

“How is Sherlock?”

“Fine, I think. I did a drug check about a week ago, and he was clean. He’s doing lots of stuff at Bart’s.” Greg frowned. “He still not speaking to you?”

“No.”

Greg rolled his eyes. “He seems alright anyway. Analysing tobacco or something.”

“Yes, I have been keeping an eye on his website. I notice he leaves you out of his cases.”

Greg smiled. “Yeah. I don’t mind really. He can take the credit if he wants.”

“You are far too accommodating.”

“I need him on side.”

Mycroft nodded. “Yes, at least he is on someone’s side.” He shook his head. “I dread to think of the chaos he’s causing at Bartholomew’s.”

“He’s doing alright, that’s the main thing.”

The barman brought over their cheese board and some plates. “If you need anything else, please call me over.”

“Thank you,” Mycroft murmured, picking up the cheese knife. Each cheese had a little label beside it and Greg studied the offerings.

“This is a bit fancy for me,” he grinned, looking up at the other man.

“Try this one,” Mycroft said, cutting a piece. “I think it will go best with this cracker.”

Greg smiled and picked up a cracker and the bit of cheese Mycroft had cut for him. “Thanks for this,” he said as he sipped his wine. “How easy was it? Finding all the information?”

“Not difficult once the care home found your records.”

Greg nodded. “Yeah, I thought they might have something.”

“I didn’t look at all of the files they had on you. Once I had your name and some other information, I didn’t require all of the paperwork they sent through. It’s in the folder, if you want it.”

“I wouldn’t have minded if you did,” Greg said, looking across at him. “It’s why I asked you. There’s no one else I’d have let do it.” He ate his cracker and smiled around it, nodding in approval.

Mycroft watched him before eating his own.

“I don’t know why I let myself get talked into it,” Greg said. “I just. I guess I just thought maybe it would make a difference. But why would it? It’s just loads of pieces of paper that say these two people existed, got together and ended up with a baby that for one reason or another, they didn’t want or couldn’t keep.”

“I imagine she did what she thought was best for you.”

Greg nodded. “Yeah. I guess so. Can’t have been easy for her.”

Mycroft nodded. “She spoke of you in court. It’s mentioned in the paper that she reported giving a child up for adoption.”

Greg frowned. “She left me in a hospital.”

“If she wanted to keep her identity a secret she could hardly have taken you to the correct authorities.”

Greg sighed. “Yeah. I guess. At least Greg’s my real name, right?”

Mycroft nodded. “Will you keep Lestrade?”

“Yeah. It’s been my name since I was 17, it would be stupid to change it now. It does feel like me. Like it’s my name. Whatever that means. It’s the stupid stuff though. When’s my official birthday again?”

“November 14.”

Greg shook his head. “See, they estimated my age, so my birthday’s always been the 29th. So, do I change my birthday? I’m 15 days older than I thought I was.”

“You do whatever you want to do.”

“It’s too soon I guess,” Greg said, taking a long drink of wine. “I just don’t really know what it means. Should I feel like a different person? Is there something wrong with me because my birth dad was a criminal?”

“Not at all.”

Greg started to cut more cheese.

“I once told you the greatest compliment I could give you is I entrust you with the care of my brother,” Mycroft told him. “I stand by that. He may not be alive if it weren’t for you.”

Greg looked up at him and swallowed.

“It’s only blood, Greg. It’s blood and genetic information. It doesn’t change the fact you are the most warm-hearted, honest, caring man I have had the good fortune of meeting.”

“It’s that nature and nurture debate, isn’t it?”

“No,” Mycroft said. “It doesn’t change anything. You are the person you are today because of the things which happened to you, but knowing what happened before you were old enough to remember does not erase any of those things. If anything, the fact you have become the person you are today despite your difficult childhood makes it all the more remarkable.”

“Thank you,” Greg whispered, looking down at his plate.

“I can’t begin to imagine how you are feeling.”

“A bit relieved,” Greg admitted. “A bit sad. For her. Angry with him.” He shook his head. “I might change my mind about this in a few days, but at the moment, I think I wish I didn’t know.”

“Why did you ask to find out?”

“It was stuff my dad said. About me and didn’t I wonder what had happened. I’ve lost count of how many times we had that conversation.”

Mycroft nodded and topped their glasses up.

Greg shrugged. “He made out like me knowing would make me feel like I belonged somewhere or something. I wanted to believe that.”

“And do you?”

Greg shook his head. “I don’t feel any different, Mycroft.” He bit his lip. No, that wasn’t true. He did feel different. He felt more lost and separate than before.

Mycroft reached out and put his hand on Greg’s arm. Greg glanced down at his hand and then up at his face. He felt like he understood. That was the difference between Mycroft and every other person Greg knew. Greg couldn’t keep a secret from him. He couldn’t hide how he felt. And he wasn’t even sure he wanted to. He’d never met a single person who understood him this well. He knew when to speak, and what to say. And he knew when words weren’t enough. And with one hand on Greg’s arm, he felt settled. It was okay, and he would be okay.

He smiled across at him. “Thank you,” he said.

Mycroft nodded and gave Greg’s arm one brief squeeze before returning to the soft cheese. “Have you tried this one?” he asked. “I believe this will go well with the wine.”

“I haven’t.” Greg spread some on a cracker. He took a deep breath. “Right. I’m done thinking about this. What have you been up to?”

“I have been in security talks about the London Olympics. Keeping one eye on the first democratic election in the Maldives.”

“I want to go to the Olympics,” Greg said. “I’d love to see the 100m final.”

Mycroft tilted his head. “I didn’t know you were an athletics fan.”

“I’m not. But it’s the Olympics. They’ll never be here again.”

Mycroft nodded. “I should be able to get some tickets for you.”

“Really?”

“Of course.”

Greg smiled. “I would love that.” He shook his head. “You keep doing things for me. I feel like I should do you a favour.”

“There’s no need.”

“Thank you anyway.”

Mycroft sipped his wine and frowned as his phone beeped. He took it out of his pocket and looked at it. “Greg, I’m sorry. I need to go to the office.”

Greg shook his head. “It’s alright. I understand.”

“I have time to drive you home.”

Greg smiled. “You sure?”

“Yes.” Mycroft had one large gulp of his wine and stood up.

Greg laughed. “Was that a good idea when you’re about to do something heroic or something?”

“Dealing with incompetent staff is never heroic,” Mycroft replied.

Greg grinned and followed him out of the bar and back down the stairs.

Mycroft sat on his phone as they drove to Greg’s road. The car stopped and Greg bit his lip. “Cheers, Mycroft. For doing that research and for cancelling your meeting.”

“Anytime,” Mycroft said. Greg smiled at him. He took one long look at him and nodded as he opened the door and slipped out of the car. He swallowed as he closed the door and watched the car drive away.

He walked up to his and Jane’s flat. Jane was already in bed, reading. She looked up at him and frowned. “Long day at work?” she asked.

“I went for some drinks.”

She nodded. “Anything exciting happen today?”

Greg hesitated as he took off his shirt. “No, just the usual.” He pulled on his pyjama trousers and joined her in bed. 


	39. Shake Myself Awake; Thinking Still Of You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am SO sorry this has taken longer than normal. My parents have been visiting, and I haven't had much of a chance to write. But I finally got there this afternoon. My boyfriend has also decided to pay an impromptu visit, so updates may be slightly more sporadic until the weekend, and it is not by choice!  
> Thank yous go to: cltc75, ahutchga1972, Jalizar, Novels, Jaeh, KingTaran, MisplacedLonelyHeartsAd, JustLookFrightenedAndScuttle, miss_anthr0pe, CommunionNimrod, vanya, skeptic7, MoonRiver, WhiskeySally, Mice, ivefoundmygoldfish (melonpanparade), Jill, Crone and ladyxdarcy. You are all utterly wonderful and thank you for bearing with me for this chapter.

_October, 2008_

Greg woke with a start. He had flung the covers off and was sitting upright. His body was shaking.

Jane walked into the room, sitting down beside him on the bed and handing him a glass of water. “Here,” she said. “It’s just a dream, babe. Not real.”

Greg nodded and had a sip. She reached out and rubbed his arm.

Greg looked to the side to check the time. 4.12am. About the same time as the last three nights. He rubbed his face. The image of the eight-year-old child and an overwhelming feeling of terror were still imprinted in his mind. The fear began to ebb away. The picture didn’t.

“I’m going to get up,” Greg said, leaning over to kiss Jane’s cheek.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, I can’t sleep. You stay in bed.”

She nodded and slid back under the covers.

Greg got up and pulled a dressing gown on, wandering out of the bedroom. He walked to the window and looked out at the streetlights. The nightmares had got more frequent lately.

Usually he was the one running. Sometimes he was the scared little boy. Other times, it was that other boy, the one with the red t-shirt, and those dreams were the worst. Because at one time, those dreams hadn’t been dreams, they had been real events.

He frowned and watched a taxi drive down the road. He was going to be exhausted if he kept going at this rate. He couldn’t control his mind though. He had no power over what his brain would show to him when he closed his eyes. Though he wished he did.

He ended up sat on the sofa with his laptop, reading the latest news. At 5.07am he got up for a shower. He left a note for Jane and went into work early.

By the end of the month, Greg found he was so exhausted through a combination of late nights and early mornings that he wasn’t suffering from the nightmares anymore.

 

* * *

 

  _November, 2008_

Greg arrived at the Tower House in Melbury Road. Most of his colleagues were already there, doing sweeps of the scene. Anderson was crouched by the body of Glenn Hungen, a TV chef and two-time Michelin star winner.

Greg sort of recognised him from the television. The house itself was spotless, neat and orderly. He looked out of the window and could see Sherlock Holmes walking down the driveway. He frowned. He hadn’t called him here.

Greg jogged down the spiral staircase and walked to the front door where Sherlock was trying his luck with Piper to get a way into the house. Piper, someone Greg thought was excellent with people but not always so excellent at having a commanding presence, was blockading the door quite successfully.

“What you doing here?” Greg asked as he approached them, folding his arms and looking at Sherlock.

“I am here to see a client. But I’m deducing that since you’re here, my client is already dead.”

“Who’s your client?” Greg asked.

“A man called Glenn Hungen.”

Greg frowned. “What did he want you for?”

“He thought someone was trying to kill him. It’s clear they succeeded.”

“Alright,” Greg murmured. “Alright, come on, let him in PC Romowicz.”

She smiled and stepped aside. Greg handed Sherlock some gloves and led him up the stairs. “He was reported missing by his producer. He was meant to be on set two days ago. Eventually the producer broke in and found his body a couple of hours ago.”

Greg led him up to where the body was. He had been hit around the head a few times. Sherlock wandered around the building, making very few comments.

Greg frowned at him. “Come on, out with it,” he said.

“He’s OCD, no close family or friends, probably just stayed in contact with those he worked with. You’re looking for someone he was arguing with, perhaps over his television show. I want to talk to the producer.”

“No chance, Sherlock. It’s my case, I’m just giving you a chance to dip your toe in it.”

“I’m not working with you. This is my case. He was my client.”

“Sherlock,” Greg warned. “This is not how this works. Maybe he was your client while he was still alive, but that’s not the case now and you do not get to run around pretending you’re working on your own. You’re working with me, or you’re off this one.”

Sherlock glared at him. “Fine. Then I’m not involved.” He turned and stalked out of the house with a petulance Greg thought he hadn’t seen him wear in a while.

Over the next few weeks, Greg interviewed everyone in Glenn Hungen’s life. Sherlock had been right about his lack of friends or family, and he didn’t seem to be very well-liked inside the television world. Oh, he had a lot of acquaintances and colleagues. But he had a lot of enemies too, those who stuck by him purely for his best-selling books and award-winning cookery shows.

Greg frowned into his computer as he watched an old episode of the show. “I mean, that chicken looks really good and all. But do people really watch this every week?” He tilted his head. “Donovan?”

“Mm?”

“Did we take a laptop in evidence?”

She frowned. “No. Why?”

“Just there’s one in the background there, look. And if he thought someone was trying to kill him then he might have had emails and stuff. We checked his phone, but we haven’t checked his laptop.”

Sally frowned and leaned over Greg to check the list of evidence they had taken in. “No laptop here.”

Greg frowned. Where the hell was that bloody- oh. Oh, he knew where that laptop was. “I have to go out,” Greg said, standing.

“Do we need to do another sweep of the house?” Sally asked.

“No. No, I know where we’ll find the laptop.”

“Where’s that?”

“Either our killer’s got it. Or our favourite consulting detective hasn’t listened to me when I told him to stay out of the case.”

Sally looked up at him gleefully. “Can we arrest him?”

Greg frowned. Actually, that wouldn’t be a bad idea. He probably wouldn’t expect it to happen and even if Mycroft came and bailed him out, it might be the kick up the backside Sherlock needed.

Greg nodded. “Come on then.”

Sally grinned and got up.

Greg drove them both to Sherlock’s flat. He was stood at a new table, working on some kind of experiment. He didn’t even turn around when Greg opened the door and let them both in.

“Sherlock, you cannot withhold evidence,” Greg said, crossing his arms and walking where Sherlock could see him. “It is not on.”

Sherlock looked up at him. “It was my case.”

“It was _not_ your case. Where is it?”

“What?”

“The laptop.”

“Oh. On the sofa. There’s nothing meaningful on it. The password’s Michelin.”

“Sherlock, I’m arresting you on suspicion of perverting the course of justice.”

Sally took hold of Sherlock’s wrists and cuffed him. Sherlock was staring at Greg as though completely stunned at this course of action.

“You’re arresting me?” he scoffed.

“I might add suspicion of murder in there too, if you’re not careful,” Greg said.

“I’m not the killer,” Sherlock protested. “It’s obvious.”

“I don’t care right now. I give you an inch, you take a bloody mile. Well, this is my warning to you, Holmes. You do not get to walk around and do whatever you want. So, hopefully a couple of hours in the cells will make you think differently.”

Greg picked up the laptop. He grinned at Sherlock and walked down the stairs. Sally followed, with Sherlock between them.

“Mycroft will just bail me out,” Sherlock said. “It’s a waste of police time and cell space.”

“I’m sure he will,” Greg said. “Quite fancy having a catch-up with your brother though, it’s been a while. And I don’t think it’s a waste of a cell. Actually, I think there’s an empty one with your name on it.”

With Sherlock safely deposited in the cells, Greg felt a weird sense of calm. For once in his life, he’d actually managed to get one over on Sherlock.

It took four hours for Mycroft to post bail, and he knocked on Greg’s office door. He had an amused smirk on his face as he walked in, Sherlock sulking behind him.

“Good afternoon,” Mycroft said, taking a seat opposite Greg’s.

Greg grinned at him. “Alright.” Sherlock stood by the wall, tapping away on his phone.

“Sherlock has been telling me all about his afternoon of sheer hell,” Mycroft said, apparently bemused.

Greg laughed. “He had it coming.”

“Have you charged him?”

“Not yet,” Greg said. “Tempting though it is, I think he might have learnt his lesson. For now.”

“Thank you, Greg. Though I believe a brief incarceration would only be a benefit to Sherlock, it would be quite embarrassing for me.”

“No worries. I’ve got the laptop now, and there’s nothing interesting in it. But if you think you’re coming to one of my crime scenes for a while, Sherlock, you better think again.”

Sherlock scowled.

“Either of you want a drink?” Greg asked, standing up.

“No,” Sherlock muttered. “We’re leaving.”

“Actually, I would like a coffee,” Mycroft said. He and Greg shared an amused smile as Greg found some mugs. Torturing Sherlock was fun. Working with Mycroft to torture Sherlock was even better.

Greg poured them both a drink.

Sherlock folded his arms. “Tea.”

Greg stared at him. “You said you didn’t want one. Make it yourself.”

“Do I really have to be here while the two of you act all superior? It’s tiring.”

“Yeah, actually,” Greg said. “I quite like this new-found power I have over you.” He and Mycroft shared another amused look as Greg sat back down in his seat, holding his cup.

“And how is the Tower House case?” Mycroft asked.

Greg shrugged, burnt his mouth on his coffee, and gave Mycroft a sheepish smile. Mycroft raised his eyebrows, but his eyes were sparkling in amusement. “Not brilliant, but we’ll sort it.”

“I’m sure you will. I’m sure you’ll be amused to know I was forced to watch football last week.”

Greg laughed. “I can’t even imagine that. Where were you?”

“At a fundraiser for a cancer charity. One of my colleagues was running it, and I had to put in an appearance for 15 minutes. Of course, there was a match on in the bar, and I was forced to stand and watch while waiting to make my excuses.”

“And what did you think?” Greg asked.

“I don’t entirely see the appeal.”

Greg laughed. “You’d get the appeal if you saw me running around in shorts, I’m sure.”

Mycroft opened his mouth a fraction and then closed it. Greg frowned. Shouldn’t really have said that.

“I just mean it’s a lot funnier watching me try and play football,” Greg clarified.

“I’m sure you’re fine,” Mycroft said.

“I try. That’s the main thing. Anyway, you said you don’t _entirely_ get the appeal?”

“There was a certain elegance to some phases of play.”

“The passing bits?” Greg asked, drinking his coffee.

“Yes. But then it all got rather messy.”

Greg laughed. “I’ll make a football fan of you yet.”

“I very much doubt that,” Mycroft said, but he was smiling. Greg grinned at him and looked up at Sherlock who appeared both disinterested and annoyed he was being forced to listen to the conversation at all.

He looked back across at Mycroft. He didn’t want to think it, but it did cross his mind that conversations between the two of them had become as easy as they ever were. Friendly and amusing in a way Greg couldn’t imagine Mycroft having conversations with other people.

“What you doing for Christmas?” Greg asked.

“Spending it at our family home.”

“Alone?”

“Thankfully, yes,” Mycroft said.

Greg nodded. “I’m working again this year.”

Mycroft frowned at him. “Is everything well?”

“Yeah, it is. I took off last year, but it seemed only fair if I worked this one to make up for it.”

“Greg, if you ever need to talk about what we discovered about your relatives, you only need pick up the phone.”

Greg smiled at him. “I know. I’m alright.”

“You’re sleeping well?”

Sherlock huffed and muttered something under his breath.

Greg rolled his eyes at him. “Yeah, I’m sleeping fine, thanks. I wasn’t. But I’m better now.”

Mycroft nodded. “I am working much of December, but perhaps in January we can go out for dinner?”

A slow smile spread over Greg’s face at the prospect of it. “Yeah. Definitely. I think I could use a catch-up.”

“Excellent,” Mycroft said, standing. “I will be in touch.”

Greg smiled at him. “Looking forward to it. I’m warning you, Sherlock. I’ll call you when I want you in on a case. You do not start doing things on your own, or next time I will charge you, whether it embarrasses Mycroft or not.”

Mycroft nodded his head. “Thank you, Greg.”

Greg smiled. “Least I can do.”

Greg watched as the Holmes brothers left his office.

 

* * *

 

  _December, 2008_

Greg solved the Tower House case. One of Glenn Hungen’s chefs was furious he was going to close a restaurant down. The jury found him guilty.

Mycroft sent Greg a Christmas card with a snowman saying “I’d actually like some coal for Christmas this year.” Greg had put it on his office desk, beside the card Jane had given him.

Greg had sent him a ‘grow your own Venus fly trap’ present.

 

Sender: Holmes, Mycroft  
Subject: Gift  
Dear Greg,  
I have just received your rather spectacular gift. Anthea is doting on it, so I assure you it will not come to harm.  
I wish it would grow up to eat more than just flies. A few politicians would not go amiss!  
Have a wonderful Christmas, I shall see you in January.  
Kindest regards,  
Mycroft Holmes

 

Greg worked over Christmas.

He and Jane celebrated on Boxing Day instead, and she made a big roast dinner and treated Louis to too many scraps. 

 

* * *

 

  _January, 2009_

Greg walked up to Crusader House with a bottle of wine under one arm. Mycroft had asked him to come for a takeaway rather than go out, a prospect Greg was all-too-happy to go along with. It rather struck him, and not for the first time, that he had somehow found himself a new best friend in Mycroft.

Mycroft was someone he enjoyed spending time with, and indeed, looking forward to seeing.

The butler let him in without a word and Greg grinned as he walked through the living room.

“There were pictures, Sherlock!” Greg heard Mycroft say from his office. “His life was in danger.”

Greg began to walk towards the door. 

“You actually _cared_ about him and just let him leave,” Sherlock replied.

“Nonsense. We were merely colleagues.”

A colleague who Mycroft let walk away? Another boyfriend? Greg felt a twinge in his chest he knew he had no right to feel. Mycroft should have moved on. He had every right to. Greg had. It was good. Healthy.

“Hi,” Greg said as he walked into the room.

“Sherlock was just leaving,” Mycroft said pointedly, staring at his younger brother.

Sherlock looked between them both and stormed out without a word. Greg raised his eyebrows. “He’s chatty tonight.”

Mycroft smiled. “I apologise.”

“You never have to apologise for Sherlock. I brought wine.” Greg held the bottle out. “I know it’s probably not as good as your usual stuff.”

Mycroft stood and walked over to him. “Thank you.” He took the bottle, his fingers brushing against Greg’s. Greg swallowed as he watched him walk out of the room. He felt as though someone had set his fingers on fire. And it was most definitely not a reaction he should have had. Far from it, in fact.

He followed Mycroft out to the kitchen where he set about pouring them each a glass. He handed Greg a menu. “I thought we might have Thai.”

“Sounds good,” Greg replied, looking down the list. “Never really had it before though. Any recommendations for a good curry?”

“How hot do you like it?”

Greg swallowed. “Uh. Hot. Yeah, hot’s good.”

“Then perhaps a Thai green curry would suit you,” Mycroft said, standing beside him and looking at the menu. “With some jasmine rice.”

Greg smiled. “Yeah. Then that.”

Mycroft took the menu from him and reached for his mobile phone to place the order. Greg picked up his wine and had one long swig. God, he didn’t know what had happened to him in the past five minutes.

He walked out into the living room and took a seat on the sofa. Mycroft sat in the opposite chair. “How was Christmas?” he asked.

“Quiet. The criminals were pretty good at not committing too much crime this year. I guess they all got their presents from Santa.”

Mycroft laughed. “Good.”

“Yours?”

“Wonderfully quiet. I spent most of it reading.”

“New books?”

“No, re-reading old ones.”

“Any I’d enjoy?”

“Yes,” Mycroft murmured, standing up and walking to one of his bookshelves. Greg swivelled in his seat and watched as the other man extracted a few books. He carried them over and sat down beside Greg. “These aren’t necessarily classics, but you enjoyed The Strange Case Of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde, so this should be to your liking.”

Greg grinned. “Don’t mean to use you as my personal library.”

Mycroft chuckled. “You’re not. I’m glad they’re being read. This is a selection of short Gothic horror stories. Perhaps you had better read them when you’re not suffering from nightmares.”

Greg laughed. “I’m alright at the moment. Don’t think I’ve had any for a couple of months. They started after I found out about my natural parents.”

“Do you expect the two events were connected?”

“Pretty sure, yeah.”

“What do you tend to dream about?” Mycroft asked.

Greg shrugged. “Depends. There’s a case.” He chewed his lip. “There’s one case, that sometimes comes into my head. Other times, it’s just me in enclosed spaces, or running from something.”

“With an associated feeling of terror.”

Greg nodded. “Yeah.”

“What are your feelings on your parents now?”

Greg shrugged. “I haven’t thought about it. I know that sounds stupid, or like I’m running away. I just don’t. Can’t.”

“I understand,” Mycroft said. “As long as you aren’t working yourself to exhaustion.”

Mycroft stood up to retrieve his wine glass from the other side of the room, but to Greg’s surprise, he sat back down beside him.

“You and me always work ourselves to exhaustion,” Greg pointed out. “And don’t say you don’t, because I’ve seen you.”

Mycroft nodded. “I know.”

Greg put the books down on the table. “Thanks for those. I look forward to reading them.”

“You’re welcome. How has Sherlock seemed to you?”

“A pain in my backside,” Greg laughed. “I guess that’s not what you meant though.” He frowned, thinking. “More independent. A bit more like he’s beginning to find his way. I dunno. He just seems a bit more sure of himself now he’s taking his own cases.”

Mycroft nodded. “That was my impression too.”

“Not to say he’s not driving me up the wall at times,” Greg grinned. “But it’s good. And how are you?”

“The same as ever. Exceptionally busy.”

“You and me both. We’ve got this new paperwork system coming in at work in the next few months. I’m trying to get to grips with it now before it starts rolling out throughout the force.”

“Do you have to teach your fellow officers?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

Mycroft looked up at the knock on the door. “And there is our dinner.” He stood and Greg carried their glasses through to the kitchen. He hunted around until he found the plates. He lay the table while Mycroft carried their dinner through.

They walked around each other in the kitchen with a natural ease which could almost have been learnt over a number of years. Opening drawers, picking up the wine bottle, Mycroft taking out some spoons and handing them to Greg to put into the rice without a question asked, or explanation needed.

Mycroft handed him the empty bag and Greg threw it away. “Greg, there’s some sweet chilli sauce in the cupboard above your head.”

Greg opened the door and retrieved the bottle, putting it down on the table. “Anything else?”

Mycroft looked down at the table. “No, that’s fine.”

Greg took a seat and opened the boxes. “Is that one mine?”

“Yes, I believe so.” Mycroft opened his own box. “Oh no, swap.”

Greg grinned and they exchanged boxes. “You’re not so into your spicy food then?”

“No, I fear yours would have had me running for the water. Actually, perhaps we should have some water.” He made to stand, and Greg automatically touched his arm.

“I’ll get it,” he said, standing up and finding some glasses. He poured their drinks and put them down.

Mycroft had already dished up their meals and Greg smiled and held up his wine glass. “So, happy 2009 then, yeah?”

Mycroft tapped their glasses together. “Yes, indeed.”

Greg had a bite of his food and nodded. “Great pick. Thank you.”

Mycroft practically glowed in delight at the compliment. Greg realised instantly he hadn’t seen him look like that since they split up two years ago. He seemed happier. Greg looked down at his food. So maybe he was seeing someone new.

Greg ate his meal. Good for him, if he was. Greg was married. Not like he was supposed to entertain these thoughts about Mycroft anyway.

They were friends, great friends. But still, Greg didn’t want to ask if he was - or had been - seeing someone. He had no right to know anyway. And Greg found he feared the answer. If Mycroft wasn’t with someone new, then Greg didn’t want to contemplate how glad he might be about that. But if Mycroft were in a new relationship…

The overwhelming jealously for someone he didn’t even knew existed caught Greg in a vice grip. He topped up their wine glasses.

“Can you tell me about anything you’ve been working on?” Greg asked.

“A new surveillance system. I’ve been working with experts on perfecting the locations where CCTV is placed across London. It has been a year in the planning. It was inspired by the fact we lost sight of the SUV which barged you into the Thames.”

Greg raised his eyebrows. “Your new project is because of me?”

“In part. It bothers me that we were never able to follow Edmund Bullock’s movements after the incident.”

Greg frowned and looked at him. “Mycroft, none of that was your fault. You know that, right?”

Mycroft took a long sip of his wine. “We could have been better prepared.”

Greg shook his head. “No. No, we couldn’t have been.”

“Nonetheless, we are working on a new system, and I’m hopeful it will be vastly improved.”

“Well, if you’re behind it, I’m sure it’ll be great. We never complain about a bit of extra CCTV in the police. Difficult balancing act, I guess, between protecting people and protecting their privacy.”

“Of course. It will be safeguarded to ensure it is is non-invasive.”

“Safeguarded by who?” Greg looked at him. “By you,” he said, realising.

Mycroft tilted his head. “You are remarkable. If you were to listen to Sherlock speak, you would think you have the mental prowess of a five year old. And yet you continually remind me that simply is not the case.”

Greg laughed. “It’s not about me being smart. I just know how to read you.”

“A skill I find quite frightening,” Mycroft said.

“Well, I find your power quite frightening when I think about it, so we’re even on that score.” Greg finished his food.

Mycroft stood to clear their plates away. “I am on your side rather than against you, so I don’t believe there’s anything to be concerned about.”

Greg laughed. “Glad you are. You’d scare the shit out of me if I came across you at a meeting.”

Mycroft laughed and turned the taps on. “We both know that’s not the case.”

“Isn’t it?”

“You’ve never been afraid of me.”

Greg frowned and then nodded. “Guess not, no. Can I help you dry?”

“Certainly.”

Greg stood up and picked up the cloth, leaning against the side while Mycroft turned the taps off and began to wash up. “What are you like with other people?” Greg asked.

“How do you mean?”

“The way you are with me. You’re not like this with other people, are you?”

Mycroft looked at him and frowned. “Greg, I would consider you to be my only friend.”

Greg nodded. “So, that’s a yes then. It’s just me.”

Mycroft began to wash up, his face turned away from him. “We have known each other almost four years. We have built up a lot of respect in that time.”

Greg took a plate from him and dried it before putting it away. “I know. And I’m different with you too.”

They did the rest of the washing and drying up in silence. Greg topped up their wine glasses and carried them through to the living room.

Mycroft joined him on the sofa a few minutes later. Greg smiled at him. “Do you make any New Year’s resolutions?”

“Only to exercise more,” Mycroft said. “And yourself?”

“Try not to lose my temper so much. I’ve got a young team, they could probably do with me being a bit more chilled out.”

“I think that’s far harder to accomplish than simply using a treadmill more regularly.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Greg said. He looked at him. “Not that you need to work out.”

Mycroft raised his eyebrows.

“What?” Greg asked. “I can’t compliment you now?”

“Temper, Greg,” Mycroft murmured, a playful smirk on his face.

Greg burst out laughing and hit him playfully on the arm. “You’re a git.”

Mycroft laughed and leaned back in the chair. They both looked at each other, smiling. Greg swallowed. Mycroft’s eyes were piercing through him. Could so easily just - no. No.

Greg looked at his watch hastily. “I better get home.”

“Yes, of course.”

“Thank you for dinner, I really enjoyed it.” They both stood up. Mycroft held his hand out and Greg shook it. Mycroft covered Greg’s hand with his left.

“If you ever need to discuss anything, I am always available,” Mycroft said.

Greg looked at him and nodded. “Me too. Hey, Mycroft?”

“Yes?”

“You’re not going out in the field anymore, right?”

“No.”

Greg nodded. “I know I haven’t got any right to ask you not to. But I’d worry about you if you were.”

“I assure you, I am desk-bound, and intend to be for the rest of my career,” Mycroft said smiling.

Greg smiled back. “Good. Or I’ll come and chain you to it instead.” He regretted the words as soon as they came out of his mouth. Mycroft promptly let go of his hand.

“Right, well, have a good rest of your week,” Mycroft said.

“You too,” Greg said, collecting the books and walking briskly to the door. “Don’t be a stranger.”

“Likewise.”

Greg forced a smile at him and walked out. He let out a long breath, widening his eyes. He had to stop saying those really stupid things.

He felt the metal band on his ring finger. He loved Jane. He loved Jane.

 

* * *

 

  _February, 2009_

Sherlock worked on a new case with Greg. They were getting on quite well, all things considered, when Greg was forced to discuss the case with the press.

All of a sudden, every phone in the press room went off. Greg frowned and looked down at his mobile.

 

MESSAGES Sherlock Holmes  
2.32pm: Wrong!

 

Greg exchanged a look with Sally and she shrugged.

Greg kept talking, explaining the bodies and the possible suspect they had in custody.

 

MESSAGES Sherlock Holmes  
2.39pm: Wrong!

 

“How the hell is he doing this?” Greg hissed at her as the journalists in the room consulted their phones.

“I don’t know,” Sally admitted.

Greg swore he would never work with Sherlock again.

And then Sherlock solved the case, and Greg forgave him after that.

 

* * *

 

  _March, 2009_

Greg and Jane met her parents half way between Dorset and London. She muttered bitterly about them the whole way home.

Greg didn’t say what was on his mind. At least you had parents when you were a kid.

When he got to the Yard later that week, he pulled the folder out. He opened it and glanced at his birth certificate. He promptly closed it again and shoved it back in the drawer.

He still wasn’t ready. 

 

* * *

 

_April, 2009_

Greg was sat on PC Leon Henman’s desk going through some new procedures their bosses had implemented for filling in forms after talking to witnesses, when Sally burst through.

“Lestrade! There’s been an explosion.”

Greg stood. “Where?”

“Dombey Street.”

“Dombey? Fuck.” Greg started towards his office. “Are we on this?” he called out as he went into his office and grabbed a coat.

“Us and Carter’s lot,” Sally said. Greg heard her begin to give orders as he grabbed his phone and called Sherlock.

It rang for six times and then cut out. Greg bit his lip. “Donovan, I need to go.”

“I’ll come with you.”

“No, I have to leave now. Sherlock lives in Dombey Street.”

Sally stared at him. “What?”

“Can you organise everyone here? We need all hands on deck, on the scene immediately. But I have to go. I have to find Sherlock.”

Sally nodded. “Go. I’ll sort it.”

Greg ran through the Yard, swerving around officers who were also on their way to the car park. Greg’s car was parked in the personal spaces, and he was able to get out through a different exit to the other vehicles leaving the other car park.

He drove to the road with his heart pounding, trying to keep his head straight. Might not even be Sherlock’s building. But it was a small road, just a row of eight or nine four-storey buildings either side. So any explosion - could have just been gas, may not even have been a bomb - may have affected any or all of the buildings on one side.

Could have been a car bomb. That doesn’t make it better. Car bombs are planted on purpose, and why would anyone target a little quiet road like Dombey Street? Unless you were targeting Sherlock Holmes.

The word Holmes was synonymous in Greg’s head with danger. There were no coincidences where Holmeses were concerned, Greg was sure of it.

And after everything that had happened to them in the past four years, Greg was even more certain there was more to it.

He parked in Theobalds Road, but didn’t pay to park. He ran towards the sirens; police cars, ambulances, fire engines all. A police helicopter was circling overhead.

It was almost deafening. Greg flashed his badge to some officers and ducked under the tape. A man was stood in a suit and Greg recognised him instantly from the Executive Liaison Group he had been to. MI5 then, probably, since he didn’t know him from the Met.

MI5 meant bomb.

Greg found Carter somewhere in the chaos. “What we looking at?” he asked.

“Expected bomb blast, took out two sets of houses, don’t know how many dead. Two ambulances have already come and gone with patients. Some are being treated over there.”

“Any called Sherlock Holmes?” Greg asked.

Carter shrugged. “Not paid any attention to names, Lestrade. I’m just coordinating officers.”

Greg watched the firefighters as they attempted to put out the blaze.

He briefly considered phoning Mycroft, but calling him out of the blue wouldn’t change the fact he had no idea where Sherlock was. And anyway, Mycroft probably already knew. He tried Sherlock’s phone again, and this time, it didn’t even ring.

And then out of the corner of his eye, he saw him. The tall figure with the long coat was almost unmistakable. Greg marched over to him, took one look and pulled him into a tight hug.

Sherlock pushed him off immediately. “What are you doing, Inspector?” he asked irritably.

Greg shook his head, chucking in relief. “Dunno,” he said. “Glad you’re alright. Your phone wasn’t ringing.”

“I left it in the flat.” Sherlock pulled a face. “I left for a moment to get a liver from the butchers. I was due to be meeting a client, but they were late.”

Greg glanced at him. “Client ever show up?”

Sherlock shook his head. “Not as far as I know, but I suppose he could be dead now.” Sherlock looked up at the buildings. “Bomb could easily have been detonated from my flat, judging by the range of the explosion.”

Greg swallowed. That had been his impression too.

From beside them, a black car rolled up to the curb, and Mycroft Holmes gracefully got out of the back. He looked at Sherlock, who huffed in response and rolled his eyes.

“Good evening,” Mycroft murmured, walking towards them. “I’m glad to see you’re safe, Sherlock.”

Sherlock stayed quiet.

“Any ideas?” Greg asked, looking at him.

“A few,” Mycroft acknowledged, looking up at the blaze. “Sherlock. I have a spare room, you are welcome to it.”

“I am not staying at yours.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m not staying anywhere near you.”

Mycroft sighed, exasperated. “Then what do you suggest? I am not paying for you to have a hotel.”

“I’m staying with Lestrade.”

Greg stared at him. “You’re doing what?”

“Staying at your flat for one night.”

Greg frowned. He’d have to warn Jane. Then again, she’d probably be thrilled to finally meet the famous Sherlock Holmes.

“Sherlock, I’m sure Greg would prefer not to spend the night putting up with you.”

“No need to get jealous, Mycroft,” Sherlock sneered, looking at him.

Greg rubbed his face.

“I was merely looking out for the Inspector’s sanity,” Mycroft said.

Sherlock snorted.

Greg looked between them. “I’m going to have to be around here for a lot longer yet. You’re going to have to wait, Sherlock, because there’s no way I’m letting you go to mine by yourself.” He turned to Mycroft. “This isn’t the MORnetwork is it?”

“I don’t know,” Mycroft murmured, looking at him.

Greg pressed his lips together. “I hate it when you say you don’t know.”

“I know. As do I.”

Greg frowned. “Just tell me if you can, yeah?”

“Of course,” Mycroft said. They gazed at each other for a second, assessing, before Mycroft finally dropped his eyes. “Very well. Since Sherlock is safe, I have no business being here getting in everyone’s way.”

“I’ll text you when Sherlock’s driving me mad,” Greg said, grinning at the younger Holmes, who rolled his eyes.

Mycroft smiled a bit. “Do,” he said. “Good evening, Greg. Sherlock.” He walked back to the car and Greg waited until he’d closed the door before turning back to Sherlock.

“Right, Holmes. You’re going to make yourself useful.”

“What?” he frowned.

“You start deducing what you can about the explosion while I see how I can help out here.”

Sherlock huffed, but started paying closer attention to the buildings anyway. He stood near an ambulance, assessing injuries as people - both alive and dead - were carried from the rubble.

 

* * *

 

 

Four hours later, and Greg pulled up outside his home. He led Sherlock up to his and Jane’s flat and opened the door.

She was sat watching the news. She looked at them both. “God, it’s terrible,” she said. “They said on the news there were at least 10 dead, was it more?”

Greg nodded. “Afraid so, yeah. Some people critical in hospital too.” He walked over and lightly kissed her mouth. “I’m going to have a shower. I’ll make some drinks first.” He looked at Sherlock. “Am I safe to leave you two alone?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and sat down on the sofa. Greg smiled weakly at Jane who just grinned back. Greg walked into the kitchen to boil the kettle, and listened to their conversation.

“Go on,” Jane said. “Deduce me then.”

Greg laughed. She was brave. He listened as Sherlock began to speak at a rapid pace.

“Early 30s, originally from the South West, probably Dorset judging by your accent. Eldest child, no children of your own though. You’ve had a string of relationships throughout your life, none of which have lasted particularly long. This is your first marriage. You’re a school teacher, working with children aged six to seven. But you’re not particularly fond of children, you enjoy learning. You studied English Language at university, though you don’t care to use it particularly well. You bite your nails in stressful situations, which you tend to avoid as much as it is possible. You have a dreadful relationship with your mother.”

Jane laughed. “Well then. That’s me told, I suppose. Nothing deep in that, all stuff I’m pretty open about.”

“You haven’t told Lestrade about your two years in and out of drug rehabilitation as a teenager.”

Greg frowned, but didn’t move from where he was stood in the kitchen.

There was a deafening silence in the flat.

“How did you know?” Jane asked quietly, her voice more hurt than Greg had ever heard it.

“You looked straight at my arms the second I walked in the room, as though looking for track marks. You have track marks on your ankles and calves, though they’re so faded Lestrade barely noticed them. Vanity dictated you didn’t inject in obvious places like your arms. He doesn’t tend to observe what’s right in front of his eyes, even on his own wife. So, they’re old. Around 17 years. Teenager, then, when you made them, but you’re not addicted anymore. You have a bad relationship with your mother, probably strained by your drug habit and when she forced you to rehab.”

Greg walked to the kitchen door. “You alright?” he asked, looking at Jane.

She frowned and nodded. “You?”

Greg nodded back at her. “It’s the past, love.”

She smiled a bit. “We’ll talk about it later, yeah?”

“Course.”

“You haven’t told her,” Sherlock said, looking at Greg.

Greg frowned and crossed his arms. “Told her what?”

“About Mycroft.”

“Who’s Mycroft?” Jane asked, looking between them.

“My brother. He’s the last person Lestrade had ‘relations’ with before he married you.”

Greg groaned. “Sherlock!” He walked into the kitchen as the kettle stopped boiling. He poured himself a coffee and a tea each for Jane and Sherlock.

“Relations?” Jane repeated.

“It’s the past, Jane,” Greg said as he carried their mugs through.

“I was right,” Sherlock said, though he didn’t seem particularly surprised by that revelation. “She didn’t know. Interesting.”

“Relations?” Jane said again. “You had… sex with his brother?”

Greg rubbed his face. “A bit.”

“Once?”

“No, more than that.”

“Twice? Three times?”

Greg pulled a face. “No, bit more than that.”

Jane frowned. “You’re. Wait. You’re bisexual?”

“Yeah.”

“What else don’t I know about you?”

Greg raised his eyebrows. “Pot, kettle, Jane.”

Jane pulled her legs up on the sofa and covered her ankles with a cushion. Greg really hadn’t paid the marks any mind before - or indeed ever noticed them at all. “I’ve told you most things,” she said as she folded her arms. “That is the only thing I didn’t tell you.”

“You never asked about my exes. I never asked about yours,” Greg said. 

“But _he_ knows,” Jane said, glancing at Sherlock.

“Of course he knew. It’s his brother. And he’s a ruddy genius.”

“How long were you together?” Jane asked. “Before you met me?”

“We broke up a couple of weeks before I met you at the wedding.”

“Were you in love with him?” Jane asked.

“No!” Greg said quickly at the same time as Sherlock said “yes.”

Greg turned his head to stare at him. “I was not in love with Mycroft.”

Sherlock offered a sardonic smile. “If you say so, Inspector.”

“You invited him to our wedding,” Jane said, frowning. “You’re still in contact with him.”

“We’re friends.”

“You’re close friends with your ex.”

“I married you for God’s sake. I was never in love with him.”

Jane bit her lip and Greg looked between her and Sherlock. He was watching them both with interest and Greg just sipped his coffee, burning his tongue and trying to hide it.

Greg sighed. “We’ll talk about this later. I need a shower.”

She nodded, and Greg carried his mug through to the bathroom. He let the hot water shower nearly scald his skin. He tried not to think too hard. It had been a draining day. It always was when so many people had lost their lives. What he thought and felt really was irrelevant compared to everything else.

And he wasn’t really that shocked. He knew Jane had baggage. And based on what he knew about her, it wasn’t really a surprise. She seemed more bothered about the fact he had been in another relationship than Greg thought she should have been. It was over. It had been over for two years, why was she so bothered about it?

He got out and towelled himself off. When he walked into the bedroom, Jane was already underneath the covers.

“I think we should talk,” she said, frowning at him.

Greg nodded. “Yeah, probably should,” he said as he pulled some boxers on. He slid into bed beside her and she curled up to his chest. He kissed her hair. “It’s alright, Jane. If you don’t want to tell me then that’s fine.”

“I want to,” she said. “I didn’t keep it a secret because I didn’t want you to know. I was just… I’m ashamed.”

“It’s okay.”

“When my mum was ill when we were kids, I fell into a rough crowd. I got in fights, I was drinking from 14, I was going out and just not hanging around with good people. A lot of older people too. And by the time I was 16, I was trying drugs. Anything, everything. My boyfriend at the time, he was about 21, and he was hooked on heroin. I never even had to pay for the stuff, he’d just let me have it.”

She pressed her lips together. “It got bad pretty quickly. My head was a fuzzy mess, I was all over the place. Of course, mum was still ill and it probably made her worse. Eventually she got me to rehab. Dad kind of. He was so worried about her, I was the last of his concerns.”

Greg kissed her cheek. “I’m sorry I didn’t know,” he said. “I wouldn’t have told you so much about Sherlock if I’d realised.”

“It’s why I freaked out at you once when you looked after him. Because now I’m older, I feel so shitty for what I put my parents through. And mum’s never forgiven me. And that kinda sucks, to be honest. I just didn’t want to see you get hurt, like they did.”

Greg swallowed and stroked her hair. “It’s alright. It’s done now. And you got through it.”

She nodded. “I never touched the stuff again. I’m proud of that.”

“I’m proud of you too,” Greg murmured.

“So… so you and Mycroft?”

Greg sighed. “We were sleeping together for about a year. But we weren’t really together that long. Couple of months, maybe.”

“What happened?” Jane asked.

“Stuff. Maybe I was in danger. I’m not entirely sure, but he ended it. It was pretty painful. I met you, and you made it better.”

She smiled a bit at him. “But you’re still friends?”

Greg nodded. “Yeah.”

“Should… should I be worried?”

Greg shook his head. “No! I married you. I love you.”

“I love you too. I’m sorry. I’m overreacting.”

“It’s fine, I understand.”

“But did you?” she asked. “Did you love him?”

“No. Does it matter if I did?”

“Only in that you met me a month after you broke up. What if I was just your rebound?”

“You couldn’t be anyone’s rebound, Jane. Ever.”

She smiled up at him.

“I need to brush my teeth,” he said, giving her a quick kiss and getting up. “Sherlock got enough blankets?”

Jane nodded. “Should do.”

Greg walked through to the bathroom. He closed the door and looked at himself in the mirror. He’d never entertained it before. Being in love with Mycroft. It wasn’t something he’d asked himself, let alone have someone else ask.

But as he stared into the mirror, he thought about Mycroft's mind, his smile. Being in his arms. The hours they’d spent together - still, on occasion spent together - and he couldn’t help but consider it.

That maybe he had. No. He definitely had. He had loved Mycroft Holmes.

And it terrified him to think he still did. 


	40. You're Leading Me Too Far From Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally got to write today. It has been torturous. Not that I don't like my parents and boyfriend, but there has been no time to write and it's driven me mad. So I can't wait to just sit and bash out thousands of words this weekend.  
> Crone, ladyxdarcy, KingTaran, miss_anthr0pe, cosmicsoup221b, ivefoundmygoldfish (melonpanparade), Mice, beccab, Jaeh, Novels, ainraatheexplorer, Velma, WhiskeySally, Jill, day_dream_girl, JustLookFrightenedAndScuttle, MoonRiver, CommunionNimrod, OwlinAutumn, skeptic7, vanya, psychicdreams and Marie1982 - you're all stars, and I'm sorry to make you wait so long!

_May, 2009_

In the morning, Greg found Sherlock had commandeered his laptop and was already searching for a new flat. Greg made him a tea and leaned over his shoulder to watch.

“Sherlock? Are you sure you can actually afford those places?”

“Mycroft will give me more money,” Sherlock told him, clicking on another flat.

“Yeah, no, I’m not so sure he will,” Greg said.

“I’ll remind him of the dangers of living somewhere with mould and I’m sure he’ll relent.”

Greg raised his eyebrows. “Sherlock, you make mould in your place on a weekly basis. Have you seen the state of your kitchen?”

“Yes, I grow acremonium, fusarium and rhizopus on a regular basis.”

Greg just nodded. “Course you do.” He stood up and tightened his dressing gown. “But don’t blame me when Mycroft doesn’t let you rent any of those places because he’s not giving you more money.”

“Mycroft doesn’t control me,” Sherlock said.

Greg snorted as he wandered back into the bedroom and shook his head at Jane. “Remind me why I deal with him?”

She laughed. “Because he’s the genius Sherlock Holmes who likes to solve your cases?”

Greg sighed. “Yeah. Yeah, he is that.”

Greg was only at work for 10 minutes when Mycroft arrived. Greg swallowed as he saw him walk towards his office door. He’d done well to blank him out of his mind all morning. But he couldn’t ignore the excited flutter in his chest at the mere sight of him.

He gestured for him to come in, and Mycroft took a seat opposite, putting some papers down on the desk. “We’re investigating the explosion,” he said.

Greg nodded. “Thought that might be the case. What do you need?”

“Need?”

“From me.”

“Everything you’ve have,” Mycroft said.

Greg turned to his computer and logged into the Yard’s server. “Not much to be honest. We were just there to control the scene. I think your guys got in there before we did.” He frowned. “Yeah, we’ve got a couple of reports, a few witness statements.” He pressed print. “Was it an IED?”

“Yes,” Mycroft said.

“Was it in Sherlock’s flat?” Greg asked.

Mycroft nodded, his lips pressed tightly together.

“MORnetwork?” Greg pressed him.

“Possibly operating under another name,” Mycroft said. “Or no name at all. We received some anonymous correspondence claiming responsibility. They said they were also responsible for Kirckudbright, the National Archives and the jewellery shop. Very few people know those are in anyway linked.”

“But Rickard Lock is dead. The weapons guy.”

Mycroft frowned. “I’m not entirely sure I’m the target.”

“Who is?”

“Sherlock.”

Greg stared at him. “What? Why?”

“I don’t know.”

Greg bit his lip and sat back in his chair. “Is there anything I can do?”

“I doubt it.”

“Filling me with confidence here then.”

Mycroft glanced down at the desk. “I’m sorry.”

Greg wrinkled his nose, watching him. Mycroft appearing defeated just filled him with the worst kind of dread. “No, hey, it’s fine. I don’t blame you. I know you’re doing everything you can. I just wish I could help.”

Mycroft nodded. “I can only promise to tell you if there is anything you can do.”

Greg sighed. “Then that’s alright with me.”

“Thank you.” Mycroft stood and collected the papers from the printer. He flicked through them. “Thank you for these.”

“If I get anything else, I’ll tell you.”

“It’s out of your hands, Detective Inspector.”

Greg glanced up at him and raised his eyebrows. “Course it is. Mr Holmes.”

Mycroft stared back at him coolly.

“What’s the problem?” Greg asked, crossing his arms.

“This is not your fight.”

“Yeah. Getting that. Just like looking after your brother isn’t my responsibility. But I’m doing it anyway.”

“Greg,” Mycroft warned.

“Don’t. I’m keeping an eye out for Sherlock whether you like it or not. Don’t try to push me out. You don’t need to tell me anything. Hell, I’m used to that. But don’t tell me it’s out of my hands. You and I both know that’s not true.”

Mycroft pressed his lips together. “You’re stubborn.”

“I know. Don’t tell me that bothers you. Because I know better on that score too.”

Mycroft frowned. “Very well. I shall inform you if I come across anything you need to know.”

“You do that,” Greg said. “And Mycroft?”

“Mm?”

“Thanks for coming and getting these reports yourself. I always appreciate it.”

“Where is Sherlock looking to live?” Mycroft asked.

Greg shrugged. “Places I don’t think he can afford without a roommate.”

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. “I don’t imagine that would go very well.”

“Neither do I. It’d take a special sort of person to put up with him.”

Mycroft nodded. “Quite. Thank you once again for these. Have a nice day.”

“You too,” Greg said as he watched him leave, umbrella in one hand. He bit his lip. So there he went. Even when he was being an arrogant sod, Greg ached to be near him.

He touched his wedding ring. It wasn’t meant to be this way. He glanced at his computer. So, he thought he would give avoiding Mycroft a go. How hard could that be?

 

* * *

 

Sherlock spent the next two weeks living in a B&B, but within one week he was very close to being kicked out. Within two, he was practically homeless.

Greg was at work when Sherlock barged into his office.

“I need you to help me move in,” Sherlock said.

Greg looked up from his computer screen. “What’s the magic word?”

Sherlock glared at him.

Greg grinned. “Come on, I know you know it.”

“Please can you help me move in,” Sherlock muttered bitterly.

Greg grinned. “Yeah, sure. But you’ve actually got to help this time. I’m not doing it all by myself.”

“You didn’t do it all by yourself last time. I recall carrying a lot of things up the stairs.”

Greg snorted. “And then you sat on your laptop while I put your furniture together. It’s not happening again.”

“The furniture will begin arriving in Montague Street from 7am tomorrow.”

“It’s all being delivered? What do you need me for then?”

“Filling the cupboards and hanging pictures is boring.”

Greg rolled his eyes. “Which means you need me do it for you.”

“Yes. It’s the least you can do since I solved the Rat Run case, and the Subdivided Crooner and The Pedigree Puppy and-”

“-And I also sat with you through God knows how many drug nights. It’s not about ‘I’ll do you a favour so now you have to do me one’. Doesn’t work like that.”

Sherlock looked at him with pleading eyes.

Greg groaned. “Fine! Fine, I’ll help. But you have to do some work too.”

Sherlock’s expression changed immediately, hardening in an instant. “Excellent. See you at 7am tomorrow.”

Greg rolled his eyes. He’d never felt so manipulated in his life. 

 

* * *

 

 To be fair to Sherlock, he did help. For the first couple of hours.  

The furniture was delivered throughout the morning, and Sherlock pointed the deliverymen to where everything should go while Greg hammered picture hooks into the walls and put the cutlery away.

But as the deliveries slowed down, Greg was left sat on the bedroom floor trying to piece together a wardrobe, while Sherlock started putting together some sort of experiment.

Greg got on with it without a word. It was a damn sight better than his old place. He felt happier with Sherlock here. It was brighter, more like a home. Further away from dealers.

The wardrobe was eventually standing, a lamp had a working lightbulb and pictures hung - somewhat haphazardly - around the living room.

Greg eyed Sherlock’s experiment warily as he stood by the front door. “Well, I’m going now,” he said.

Sherlock didn’t respond.

“I want a key,” Greg said.

“No.”

“Sherlock, seriously. There’s a reason I had a key to your old place. So, when you get one cut, I want you to give me one.”

“No.”

“If I didn’t have a key to your old flat, you’d have died.”

“Unlikely. You’d have broken in.”

“I’m a policeman. I can’t just break in left, right and centre.” Greg sighed. “Just. Just think about it, alright? That’s all I ask.” Greg frowned at him and left.

 

* * *

 

_June, 2009_

In hindsight, Greg should have seen it coming.

It was the way Sherlock barged into his office, furious because Anderson wouldn’t be his assistant.

It was the way he sat in Greg’s chair, muttering bitterly about how Mycroft wouldn’t keep his long nose out of his business, while at the same time bemoaning the fact his brother wasn’t giving him anymore money so he could stay at his flat in Montague Street.

“I’ll have to get a flatmate. All Mycroft has to do is give me an extra £300 a month. It’s not like he doesn’t have enough money, with his work with MI5 and MI6 and his freelance work with the CIA and I’m convinced he’s taking a Government salary and-”

“Sherlock, get out of my seat,” Greg demanded.

“-My brother is practically the British Government now he’s taken on the extra responsibilities – or stolen extra responsibilities, pretending they’re in his jurisdiction – because he is essentially a megalomaniac who won’t delegate responsibilities-”

“Sherlock. My seat. Out.”

“-And now he wants to run my life.”

“Seat, Sherlock!”

Sherlock frowned at him. “I’ll swap the seat for a case.”

“I don’t have a case.”

“Then you don’t have the seat.”

Greg growled at him. He still didn’t move.

Perhaps it was the way he had been more cutting to Sally than usual. “Dumped by another boyfriend, Donovan?”

And then there was the way he suddenly got quiet.

And Greg knew, with hindsight, he should have seen the crash coming.

He was stood in the kitchen, checking on some jacket potatoes when Jane called out to him to tell him his phone was ringing.

“Who is it?” Greg asked, as he opened the oven.

“Mycroft Holmes.”

Greg frowned and walked out, taking his phone from Jane. His thumb hovered over the answer button for a second before he tapped it and put the phone to his ear. “Lestrade.”

“Good evening, I’m terribly sorry to interrupt you on your night off.”

Greg walked to the window and looked outside. “How’d you know it was- never mind. What’s up?”

“It’s Sherlock.”

Greg rolled his eyes. “Course it is.”

“He was spotted by one of the members of my security team in discussions with a drug dealer.”

Greg sighed. “Bloody hell. Right. Okay, no worries, I’ll check on him.”

“I would do it myself, but I’m in France.”

“No, you’re good, don’t worry. When was he spotted?”

“Earlier this week.”

Greg sat down on the sofa, Jane eyeing him curiously from the other side of the room. “Earlier this week?” Greg repeated, disbelieving.

“Yes, I imagine he has been having quite a binge.”

“You need to tell me when it happens, Mycroft, not just let me pick up the pieces afterwards.”

“I was not aware until five minutes ago.”

“Right. Yeah, of course, sorry. I’m just angry at him.”

“I know. He may require some assistance over the next few days while the drugs leave his system.”

Greg sighed. He’d had his fair share of withdrawal-Sherlock. Enough to last a lifetime, but like the idiot he was, he’d go through it all over again. “Sure. I’ve done this before. I can deal with it. I’ll keep you updated.”

“That is very much appreciated. My sincere apologies.”

“Well, unlike Sherlock, at least you have the decency to say sorry. I’ll text you.”

“Thank you, Greg,” Mycroft said as he hung up.

Jane frowned at him. “What’s up?”

Greg stood up to pull a jacket on. “Sherlock’s probably going to spend the next few days going through withdrawal.”

Jane pulled a face. “Ouch. Cold turkey?”

Greg nodded and walked into the kitchen to double-check the potatoes. “Yep. We’ve done it before. It’s just been a long time, to be honest. He seemed better the last couple of years.” Greg frowned. “Not so great recently.”

“Bring him here if you need to,” Jane said. “It’s half term. I’ll keep an eye on him when you’re at work.”

“Are you sure? He’s a total nightmare.”

Jane smiled. “I’ve been there, Greg. I know how it works.”

Greg nodded. “I’ll drag his skinny arse here then. The potatoes will be done in 10 minutes. Save me one?”

Jane smiled. “Course I will.”

Greg drove to Sherlock’s new building before remembering the man had refused him a key. He knocked hard on the door. No reply. “Sherlock!” he called out. Still no reply. He frowned at it and gave it a hard kick. “Sherlock!”

Another door swung open. “Keep the noise down!” an elderly woman hissed at him.

Greg showed her his badge and she frowned. “Is he in trouble?” she asked.

“Well, no,” Greg said. “I just need to get in there.”

The woman nodded at him. “You should hear the noises from there. The violin, shouting, stomping, bangs, ghastly.” She shook her head and walked back into her flat.

Greg frowned and beat his fist hard against the door. “I’m staying here until you let me in so you better-”

The door swung open and Sherlock glared at him. His pupils were constricted. Greg shook his head at him. “Idiot,” he muttered, barging past him into the flat and looking around. He grabbed a dirty tea-towel from the side and picked up two syringes from the floor. “Idiot,” he said again. “Idiot.”

“Go away,” Sherlock groaned, collapsing back onto the sofa.

Greg stared at him. “No. I’m not going anywhere. When was the last time you ate? When was the last time you had a bloody shower, come to think of it? How the hell could you do this to us again, after everything you put us through?”

“Are you quite finished?”

“Am I quite finished? No, Sherlock, I am not finished. I am not finished by a long stretch. What the _hell_ were you _thinking_? Oh, right. Genius Sherlock Holmes. Such a genius that he doesn’t even think about killing himself. He doesn’t think twice about the fact that people actually _care_ about his well-being.”

Sherlock continued to stare at him, his eyes glazed.

Greg grabbed a needle from the side and held it out. “Go on. Take it. Have another hit. Turn your brain to mush. Go into another coma. See if I care.”

Sherlock glanced at the syringe and back to Greg’s face, his brow furrowed.

Greg pressed his lips together, taking a few moments to calm himself down. “Coming down?” he asked.

“Yes,” Sherlock said.

“Doing another hit?”

“I was going to.”

Greg held the syringe out. “Go on then.”

Sherlock didn’t move. They stared at each other. Greg expected him to take the needle and inject the poison into his veins. But at the same time, Sherlock wasn’t going to just relent. Greg was counting on that.

“You’ve been doing so well,” Greg said, dropping the needle down onto the table. He checked a chair for syringes before sitting down on it.

Sherlock just watched him.

“I mean, what can I do, Sherlock?” Greg continued. “You tell me, and I’ll do it. You want to be more involved in cases? You need me to talk to people at Bart’s? What the hell can I do to make this easier for you?” Greg sighed as Sherlock sat listlessly watching him. “Guess you’re not gonna answer that, are you? You’re just going to make me guess.”

Greg rubbed his face. “Look, I can’t guess. I can’t make sense of what happens in that head of yours. I don’t know what it is that makes you tick. I don’t understand you even remotely. But I know two things. You listening to me, Sherlock? I know two things. I know you don’t want to be controlled by the drugs, or you would never have tried to stop all those times you did. And I know we can beat it again. Because we did all those other times.”

“My limbs hurt.”

Greg nodded. “Withdrawal starting, yeah?”

Sherlock nodded.

“Alright,” Greg said, standing up. “You’re spending a few days at mine with me and Jane. And do not pull that face at me. And we’re going to figure all this out.”

Greg walked towards Sherlock’s bedroom and then paused. He turned around. “I know this will never be over, mate. I know you’re going to relapse sometimes. But you think I’m ever going to just back off and let you die in your own vomit, then you’ve got another thing coming.”

Greg walked into the bedroom and hunted around until he found a blanket. He collected up some clothes - what was with Sherlock’s sock drawer anyway? - and carried it all through.

Sherlock, for his sins, had sat up, though he was hunched forward in the chair, in obvious pain. Greg held his arm out to him. A shaky hand grasped onto it and Sherlock used Greg’s arm to pull himself out of the seat. Greg held him up, wrapping an arm tightly around his waist.

“Alright,” Greg murmured. “Right, let’s get out of here.”

He helped Sherlock out of the flat, locking up behind them. Guiding him towards the car, he let Sherlock slump along the back seats and handed him the blanket.

He drove slowly back to the flat, careful not to stop too suddenly. Greg even took the lift, allowing Sherlock to slump against the wall rather than force him to take the stairs.

When they got in, Jane had already dimmed the lights in the living room and had found some painkillers, ice and a hot water bottle.

Greg led Sherlock to the sofa and she frowned. “We need to get some antiseptic on those marks,” she said, walking to the bathroom.

Sherlock frowned, but his face scrunched up in pain, as he folded his body at the stomach as he curled up. Greg gently touched his arm. “S’alright, mate,” Greg said. Sherlock’s legs shook, lashing out.

Jane returned. “This will sting a tiny little bit, but I’ll be gentle,” she said, frowning as she knelt down beside Sherlock on the floor. She applied some cream to the needle marks with a cotton wool bud. Sherlock winced, but didn’t pull his arm away.

Greg leaned against the wall, watching them with a curious expression on his face.

“Have the bone aches started yet?” she asked.

“No,” Sherlock said. “Sweating, shivering, stomach cramps.”

Jane nodded and covered the marks with a dressing. “Wrapping my legs with bandages used to ease the pain a bit,” she said. “Do you get the ants in your veins?”

“No.”

Jane nodded. “Used to kill me, that did. Used to smack my legs, ended up with bruises right up and down. I scratched until I bled. I used to cut my nails right down so I couldn’t hurt so much.”

Greg frowned and watched as Sherlock studied her for a moment.

“I’ve got some rehydration sachets,” Jane said. “Popped out to the supermarket just before you came. That’ll help right?”

Sherlock nodded.

“Greg, babe, can you get them for me? They’re just in the kitchen.”

Greg walked through, not used to someone else taking over Sherlock’s care. Not that he was complaining. He picked the drugs up from the side and carried them through. He watched Sherlock and Jane, amazed he was letting her look after him at all.

Sherlock wasn’t good with people. But perhaps somehow finding someone who understood was a help rather than being patronising.

“Having a shower,” Greg murmured, leaving them to it.

 

* * *

 

 When Greg got home from work the next day, he was stunned to see Jane sat on the floor, reading aloud from a physics book. Sherlock appeared as though he was in a lot of pain, but he hardly made a sound.

Greg smiled at her as he listened. He didn’t have a clue what she was talking about. He doubted she did either.

He knew he’d never loved her more than at that moment. 

 

* * *

 

 Sherlock spent three nights at Greg and Jane’s flat before returning to his own. Greg drove him there and stood in the doorway.

Sherlock sat down with his laptop.

“Sherlock?” Greg said, watching him.

“What?”

“You can’t do this anymore. Taking drugs.”

And to his utter surprise, Sherlock replied with: “I know.”

Greg bit his lip. “Right then.”

“I’m going to stop smoking. I hardly do it, but the occasional cigarette is hardly healthy.”

Greg stared at him. “Y’what?”

“You should give up smoking too, those things will kill you.”

Greg almost laughed. “What?” he repeated.

Sherlock looked at him. “I’ll make you a deal, Inspector. I won’t take drugs, and you won’t smoke anymore.” Greg continued to stare. Sherlock turned back to his laptop “Leave now, your face is annoying me.”

“You’re serious?” Greg asked.

“When am I not completely serious?”

“Alright then,” Greg murmured, nodding. “Alright.”

He turned and left. When he got to the Yard, he put a nicotine patch on.

The first week was the hardest. Then he thought of how painful Sherlock’s withdrawal had been. It wasn’t so hard to give up smoking after that.

 

* * *

 

  _July, 2009_

Greg curled up on the sofa with Jane. They were watching Back To The Future on ITV, enjoying a lazy Sunday afternoon. It was hot outside - almost too hot, and Louis was sat near the window panting.

“Stupid dog,” Jane said, affectionately. “Should move because he’s too hot, but he sits panting instead.”

“He’s stubborn.”

“Reminds me of someone,” Jane grinned, reaching out and touching Greg’s cheek.

Greg laughed and stretched his legs out in front of him. She took a long sip of her coke, passing the glass to Greg to have a sip. From beside him, his phone rang. They both looked at it.

Calling: Mycroft Holmes

“Just ignore it,” Jane murmured.

“Can’t,” Greg said. “He never calls unless it’s important.”

Jane frowned, but didn’t say a word.

“Lestrade.”

“Good afternoon.”

“What’s up?” Greg asked as Jane stood up and wandered into the kitchen. Greg watched her go.

“I have a… delicate situation,” Mycroft replied.

Greg stood up. “What do you need?” he asked.

“A car is on its way to pick you up.”

Greg laughed. “Could have asked first, Mycroft. You know. Say please.”

“Please?” Mycroft asked.

Greg grinned and walked into the bedroom. “Do I need to wear a fancy shirt?”

“No,” Mycroft said. “Although, perhaps carry your badge.”

“Can’t,” Greg told him. “I’ve had to request a new one. A certain someone stole mine. Again.”

“Sherlock?” Mycroft asked.

“Who else?”

“The car will arrive in five minutes.”

“Then I’ll see you soon.”

“Thank you,” Mycroft said before hanging up.

Greg pulled his t-shirt off and hunted around until he found a light white buttoned shirt to replace it.

Jane watched him from the doorway. “Going out?”

“Yeah. It’s a delicate situation apparently.”

She frowned at him. “Right. So, our quiet Sunday is now not so much a quiet Sunday?”

“He needs my help,” Greg said.

“With what?”

Greg frowned. He didn’t really know. Mycroft said ‘delicate situation’ and he just agreed to it. “It’s important,” was all he could say as he slipped some shoes on.

“What is it, Greg?”

“It’s just important, Jane, alright?” he said.

She sighed. “Fine.”

Greg went to kiss her cheek but she turned her face away. “I won’t be long,” Greg said, though he knew he couldn’t say that for definite.

“Just get home,” was all she said as she walked back to the living room.

When Greg got outside, the car was already there and he slid in. It was air-conditioned, and he was grateful for it. He watched out of the window and soon realised it was headed towards Sherlock’s new flat in Montague Street.

He frowned. What the hell had he done now?

Mycroft was stood outside of the building when Greg arrived, umbrella (why?) in one hand. He must have been baking in the suit, but his face didn’t appear sweaty at all.

Greg smiled at him as he walked over. “Delicate situation involving Sherlock?” he asked. “I should have known.”

“Actually, it doesn’t involve Sherlock,” Mycroft said, an amused smile on his face “Well, not directly. After you.”

Greg shrugged and walked into the building, starting up the stairs. He stopped when he reached Sherlock’s door. Mycroft stalked past him. He didn’t pull out a key, but instead picked the lock. Greg laughed. Sometimes the brothers were so alike, and they’d both hate to admit it.

Mycroft opened the door and Greg followed him in. From the sofa, a scrawny man with thinning hair looked up at them both. Greg glanced at Mycroft.

“Mr Carlson, I believe?” Mycroft asked, his tone hard.

“Uh. Yeah. Yeah. Adam. Carlson. Who are you?”

Mycroft strolled over to a chair, glanced at it for a moment, before sitting down. Greg stood, his arms crossed as he watched.

“And so you are Sherlock Holmes’ new flatmate,” Mycroft murmured, looking around. “Quite a hideous mess you’ve both made.”

“He’s messy,” Adam Carlson said.

“Quite,” Mycroft agreed.

“Who are you?”

“No concern of yours.” Mycroft took a chequebook out of his pocket. “How much do I need to pay you to report back to me on Sherlock’s movements?”

Adam stared at him. “What? Why?”

Greg bit his lip, tilting his head. What the hell?

“Because I have an interest in it.” Mycroft retrieved a pen from his pocket. “Name your price, Mr Carlson.”

“£500,” Adam blurted out. “A month.”

“Very well,” Mycroft said, writing a cheque.

Greg didn’t say a word. Adam glanced at him, almost desperately. Greg just shrugged and Mycroft held out the cheque. Adam reached for it.

“Make one false move,” Mycroft murmured, still holding the paper tightly between his thumb and forefinger. Adam glanced at him, fear in his eyes and he hesitated in his movement towards the cheque. “Put one toe over this line.” Mycroft held his umbrella out in front of him with his other hand and drew one long invisible line on the carpet between them. He raised his eyebrows. “Well. I don’t think we need to go into specifics, do we Mr Carlson? I’m sure your position is perfectly clear to you.”

Adam swallowed. “Not-not really.”

Greg glanced at them both. He felt a bit sorry for this Adam chap. But the man was willing to accept money from a stranger to spy on Sherlock. So, he didn’t care that much.

“Mate,” Greg started. “This is the most powerful man you’ve ever met. I’d take the cheque and scarper if I were you.”

Mycroft glanced up at him and they shared a look. Mycroft’s eyes were dark and Greg felt himself inwardly shudder. He couldn’t help himself. There was something so unbelievably sexy about him when he was in control. Greg bit his lip and Mycroft stood.

Mycroft dropped the cheque down on the floor. “I would take my colleague’s advice, Mr Carlson. Cash the cheque. And be gone before Sherlock Holmes returns. Good afternoon.”

He turned and walked out of the room. Greg gave Adam one quick, apologetic look. What had he done, after all, except be willing to move in with Sherlock?

He followed Mycroft into the car before he spoke. “What the hell was that?”

“A test of his trustworthiness,” Mycroft said. “He failed.”

“And what exactly did you need me for?” Greg asked.

“To demonstrate the level of my trust in you. I allow you to be around Sherlock without hesitation.”

Greg frowned. “You don’t need to prove anything to me. We’ve known each other four years.”

“Nonetheless, I felt a practical demonstration was required.”

Greg laughed and shook his head. “Sometimes I wonder how you and Sherlock are related. Other times, you have social skills as bad as he does. Don’t get me wrong-” Greg started, as Mycroft glared at him. “Don’t get me wrong, you’re miles better than him at being a human being. And unlike him, I think you genuinely like me. And I’m beginning to doubt he actually knows my first name.”

Mycroft smiled a bit.

“You don’t need to prove anything to me,” Greg said again.

They arrived at Greg’s flat. He looked out of the window. He hardly wanted to leave. He wanted to spend the night here, in the car, talking to Mycroft for hours. Which was all the more reason he should go.

“Yourself and Anthea are the two people I trust the most,” Mycroft told him.

Greg stared at him. “Right. Right, that’s good, Mycroft. That’s really good. Look, I need to…”

“Go home,” Mycroft finished for him.

“Yeah,” Greg whispered, looking across at him. He hated himself for how he felt about Mycroft. He wanted to stop feeling it, but at the same time, couldn’t bring himself to. Like a criminal in jail. Wishing he could escape the bars, but fearful all the same. Fearful of life outside those concrete walls. Because how could life outside ever feel so safe?

Greg swallowed. “Call me, yeah? We’ll do dinner.”

“Of course,” Mycroft murmured.

Greg nodded and got out of the car as quickly as he could. He stood at the side of the road and watched the car drive away. It took hours before the tension - sexual? Emotional? - finally left his body.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock burst into his office the next day, pure murder written over his face. “What did you do? My flatmate has gone and left me in a flat I can’t afford to pay for.”

Greg held his hands up. “I didn’t do anything. I thought he was a perfectly pleasant chap.” Sort of, maybe. Potentially.

“Mycroft,” Sherlock snarled.

“Yeah, Mycroft might have scared him a bit,” Greg said. “He did that thing, you know where he lowers his voice like he’s warning you? Except he didn’t just subtly scare so much as petrified the guy.”

“Mycroft,” Sherlock muttered again. Then he stared pointedly at Greg. “I need a case.”

Greg stared up at him. He smiled slowly and reached into his drawer. “Well, there is this one,” he said, as normal service resumed.

 

* * *

 

_August, 2009_

Greg watched Jane get ready for work. He had a day off and she was sat at her dressing table, putting her make-up on. He smiled to himself as he watched her.

She walked over and kissed him. “Have a great day,” he told her.

She flashed him a bright smile. “You too.”

Two hours later, Greg got up and glanced in the mirror on her dresser. It was then when he noticed her wedding and engagement rings, on top of her jewellery box. He frowned.

He was too worried about the connotations of it to ask her about it. She wore the rings every day for the rest of that month, and it was soon forgotten about. 


	41. This Should End But I Can't Let You Go

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heartfelt thank yous go to: Dravni, Mice, Marie1982, ahutchga1972, Jaeh, psychicdreams, Abbennett, ladyxdarcy, JustLookFrightenedAndScuttle, KingTaran, MoonRiver, Spooky831, artemisdecibal, beccab, WhiskeySally, OwlinAutumn and Per_Solem. Lots of hugs and cookies.

_September, 2009_

Greg and Jane celebrated her birthday with a few members of her family at a restaurant near Trafalgar Square. It was a quiet affair, but full of laughter and good wine.

 

* * *

 

_October, 2009_

Greg looked in the mirror as he fastened his shirt. Jane watched from the bed. “Where are you going again?” she asked.

“The Grand Union in Brixton.”

“A bar?” Jane asked.

“Yeah, it’s probably quite fancy.”

“For Mycroft Holmes’ birthday.”

Greg looked at her. “He invited me.”

“And who else is going?” she asked.

“I don’t know, I didn’t ask.”

“But there’s no wives and girlfriends invited?”

Greg sighed. “I didn’t ask. He just said he was having a small birthday celebration and did I want to come.”

“How old is he?”

“40.”

“Oh. Big one.” Jane nodded. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Should I be worried that you spend so much time with your ex?” she asked.

“No. No, you should never be worried.” Greg walked over to her and kissed her head. “I’m married to you, you daft woman.”

She smiled up at him. “Okay. I’m going to go round my sister’s I think.”

Greg nodded. “I won’t be too late,” he said, returning back to the mirror.

“You look good,” Jane said. “I’m sure Mycroft will think so.”

“Jane,” Greg warned.

She laughed and shook her head. “I don’t mean it, babe. I just mean you look dishy. A proper dish. I’d tap that.”

Greg looked at her and laughed. “I’m glad you still think so.”

She smiled. “Always will.”

Greg kissed her and checked his watch. “Right. Car should be here in five minutes. I’ve got my phone on me.”

“Have a nice night. I hope he likes the present.”

Greg laughed and picked the box up. “He’s going to think it’s ridiculous.”

“But that’s the charm,” Jane said, smiling. “I think it’s a lovely gift. I don’t understand why it suits him, but it seems nice.”

Greg nodded. “Right. Have a nice night.”

“You too.”

He grabbed his phone, wallet and keys and pulled his coat on. One of Mycroft’s cars were waiting for him outside. To his utter surprise, Mycroft was already in it. Greg grinned as he did his seatbelt up. “I thought I was meeting you there.”

“I was dreading being the only person there,” Mycroft admitted. “At least if you come with me then we can share drinks alone when no one else comes.”

Greg laughed. “They’d be too scared not to go. Happy birthday.”

Mycroft smiled. “Thank you.”

Greg handed him the box. “And this is for you.”

Mycroft looked down at it. The wrapping paper was covered in brightly-coloured dinosaurs. He appeared a little perplexed, but opened it. Greg chewed his lip as he watched.

Mycroft looked at the nondescript cardboard box and opened that too. He pulled out the wine bottle holder, shaped like a stegosaurus. There was already a bottle of wine inside, and the holder made it appear as though it had spines and a tail.

Mycroft laughed as he turned it in his hands. Greg grinned as he watched his face light up.

“Thank you,” Mycroft said. “Every gift you’ve ever bought me has taken me totally by surprise. I didn’t realise things like this existed.”

“It’s probably won’t fit in in your flat,” Greg admitted. “But I liked it.”

“As do I,” Mycroft said.

Greg smiled. “How’s your birthday been?”

“Busy. And quite tedious.”

“Who else is coming tonight?”

“A few people I need to talk around on certain matters. I’m hoping some wine and a relaxing environment will remind them to say yes to my various strategies.”

Greg laughed. “Great plan.”

“I hope you won’t find it too dull. I invited you because I didn’t think I’d enjoy it without you there.”

Greg chuckled, and felt his face flush. “I’ll do my best. What role are you here as?”

“Role?”

“Government official or what?”

“Oh. Yes, Minor position in the Department of Transport.”

Greg grinned. “Alright then. Good work on the trains.”

Mycroft looked at him and shook his head in amusement. They both got out of the car and Greg followed Mycroft to the bar.

Mycroft had reserved a space for his party and at least 20 people were already there. Greg raised his eyebrows when he saw Anthea in a full-length green dress. He suddenly felt quite informal. Should have worn a tie.

“You don’t need a tie,” Mycroft murmured against his ear. “Everyone else is needlessly formal, not the other way around.”

Greg stared at him. “It’s weird when you do that.”

Mycroft just smiled and walked towards Anthea. Greg followed, looking around. Mycroft kissed both her cheeks. “Happy birthday, Mr Holmes,” she said. She beamed at him. Greg realised he’d never seen her smile once. It was nice to see her relaxed.

“Thank you, Anthea.” Mycroft turned to shake the hand of a man she was with. He was tall, with a sculpted face, with one scar along one cheek. “This is Anthea’s husband, Arnou Fortier.”

Greg shook his hand. “Greg Lestrade.”

Arnou nodded his head. “Pleasure. Happy birthday, Mr Holmes,” he said in a French-sounding accent.

“Thank you.” Mycroft looked around. “Who am I looking for?”

Anthea followed his gaze. “By the window is the Shadow Secretary Minister Without Portfolio. With his wife, who is a human rights lawyer. Just behind them is target one for the evening.”

“Secretary of State for Environment, Food and Rural Affairs,” Mycroft murmured, close to Greg’s ear. “Recently lost a string of investments, caused a small scandal when he married his current wife.”

Greg looked at the woman beside him. “That’s his wife?”

“Yes. She was just 19 at the time.”

Greg raised his eyebrows. “What does she see in him?”

“Quite,” Mycroft agreed. “Target two?”

“Not here yet,” Anthea said. “Target three is en-route, she requested one of your cars.”

Mycroft shook his head. “Of course she did,” he muttered. “Very well. Greg, I must speak to the Secretary of State for Environment, Food and Rural Affairs. Anthea, please look after him.”

Anthea smiled. “I think we need to get you a drink, Detective Inspector.”

Greg laughed and followed her to the bar. “So this is a bit of a weird birthday with targets and everything.”

She nodded. “Mr Holmes doesn’t often have birthday celebrations. But we were working on so many matters which interlinked we thought we should bring them all here and just sort everything out at once.” She handed Greg a glass of wine. “I’m glad you’re here, Inspector.”

“Greg.”

She nodded. “I’m glad you’re here, Greg. He works so hard. It’s nice to see him have a break. And I’m afraid speaking to you will be the only break he gets tonight.”

“I don’t know how he does it,” Greg said.

Anthea nodded. “I understand you looked after him following the drugging incident?”

Greg glanced at her. “What? The one where he ended up being beaten up?”

“I received the full report last week. He hid it from me. Silly man,” she said, but there was no venom to her tone. “Every report he writes goes past my desk eventually.”

Greg sighed, recalling the cuts along his back, the bruises on his stomach. “Scared the life out of me,” he said.

“I knew he was injured. I had no idea how badly.” Greg glanced at her. For a moment, she looked distressed at how she’d missed something, but her face returned to neutral in a split second. “I’m glad you were there. I can’t express my gratitude.”

Greg stared at her. “Your gratitude?”

“I can’t disclose how Mr Holmes and I crossed paths. Classified. But he saved me.”

Greg nodded. “I’ve heard that before. One of his drivers told me he saved his life.”

“Inspires the utmost loyalty,” Anthea said. “I like and respect him in a way I would never like and respect another employer. And so when he’s hurt.” She paused, sipping her wine. “I’m grateful you were there.”

Greg sipped his wine. It was so incredibly smooth. “I care about him,” he said, glad he’d actually had an opportunity to get the words out, with someone who understood.

“He’s a rare gem,” she said. “But sometimes even the brightest stars fade. I worry about him. I was very sorry he ended your relationship. You were wonderful together.”

Greg glanced at her but didn’t say a word.

“I’ve never seen him so happy,” she said. “Don’t tell him I told you that.”

“I won’t.”

“He hides everything. They call him the Ice Man, did you know that?”

Greg shook his head. “No.”

“They do. But not with you. You thaw him the moment he sees you. And that happened long before your relationship began, it was almost instantaneous. Do you know why that is?”

“I don’t.”

“You were the first person outside Mr Holmes’ family who has ever made an effort to respect and trust and care for his brother. In return, he just can’t put his walls up around you. It’s really quite amazing to watch from a distance.” Anthea looked at him and smiled. “And so, while your relationship is over, for which I berate Mr Holmes for on a weekly basis, I’m glad you’re here. Because while he’s a rare gem, you’re berkelium.”

Greg frowned. “That sounds like an insult.”

Anthea just smiled. “It’s the rarest element on earth.”

Greg stared at her.

“You should go to him. I think he’s achieved mission one for the evening.” And with that, Anthea turned and wandered back to her husband’s side.

Greg looked over at Mycroft, in his light suit with the blue tie. He was in deep discussion with someone. Greg was captivated. He could stand here, in this spot, all evening just watching. His laugh, however fake, was enough to make Greg smile. And when it was fake, given the chance Greg would make all sorts of stupid jokes to make it a real one.

And he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t stand here all evening and watch. He couldn’t make him laugh when no one else was able to. Because Mycroft wasn’t his. And Mycroft wasn’t his because Mycroft didn’t care about him in that way anymore - if he ever had - and he had ended their relationship over two years ago. And now Greg was married. Married to a lovely, charming woman who made him smile and did make him happy.

Mycroft looked across the room at him and Greg smiled instantly in response. Maybe he should have fought for Mycroft when he had the chance. But afraid of being too needy, he didn’t do it. And he worried that regret would eat him up for the rest of his life.

He walked to Mycroft’s side. “Enjoying yourself?”

Mycroft smiled. “I wasn’t until now,” he said.

Greg laughed and tapped their glasses together. “A man walks into a bar with a roll of tarmac under his arm and says ‘Pint please, and one for the road’.”

Mycroft laughed and shook his head. “What on earth was that for?”

Greg grinned. “You said I was here to entertain you. I’m doing my job.”

Mycroft opened his mouth as if to say something and then closed it again. “No,” he said. “I have absolutely no response. For once, I am rendered speechless.”

Greg laughed. “My one aim in life.”

Mycroft laughed with him and Greg watched his eyes light up.

“Tell me about the people here,” Greg said, standing beside Mycroft so he could look around the room at the same angle. Their arms brushed together.

“Pornography addict, regular cannabis user, pornography writer, former ballet dancer-”

“-That guy used to do ballet?” Greg asked, staring.

Mycroft smiled. “Quite evident from his posture and foot position.”

Greg laughed. “Keep going.”

“Regular karaoke singer, another pornography addict and well, that man by the window is quite simply a Minister Without Portfolio and appears rather uninterested in this party.”

Anthea walked over to them. “Mr Holmes. Target three.”

Mycroft nodded. “Thank you, Anthea. Greg, would you do me the pleasure of joining me?”

“Me?” he asked.

“Yes. Your charm will be quite helpful in this situation.”

Greg laughed. Charm? He had charm? He followed Mycroft to the woman with the grey hair anyway.

“Greg, this is Sylvia Ross,” Mycroft said.

Greg shook her hand. “Nice to meet you.”

She gave him a once over. “How do you do.”

Greg nodded. He was never entirely sure how he was supposed to respond to that. Was it a hello or a question?

“Greg is a Detective Inspector for the Metropolitan Police,” Mycroft explained.

Sylvia looked at him. “Oh. My husband was a policeman. He died 10 years ago, but he was always very well-respected. Hubert Ross, perhaps you know the name?”

“Yeah, I do,” Greg said. “There’s a whole corridor. The Hubert Ross office block.”

Sylvia all but beamed at him. “Oh, it’s still called that? How utterly perfect. Mycroft, thank you, this has made my day.”

Mycroft glanced at Greg and smiled. “Perhaps we can discuss the plans for the-”

“-Oh, Mycroft, must we always talk about work?” Sylvia interrupted. “I would like to spend some time talking to your husband, will you allow an old lady that at least?”

Greg nearly opened his mouth to protest, but closed it. He wasn’t going to ruin whatever negotiations Mycroft was trying to make.

“Of course,” Mycroft murmured.

Sylvia turned back to Greg. “And in what department do you work?”

“The serious crime division.”

“And how successful are you?”

Greg laughed a bit. “I’m doing alright,” he said.

“He’s too modest,” Mycroft said. “The statistics are the best Scotland Yard has seen for at least the past 10 years. If not longer.”

Greg glanced at him and smiled. “Thank you.”

“What made you become a policeman?” Sylvia asked.

“I didn’t know what else to do,” Greg laughed.

Sylvia smiled. “How refreshing, some honesty. Mycroft.”

“Yes, Mrs Ross?”

“You would like me to sign the paperwork currently sitting on my desk at home, is that correct?”

“Yes it is,” Mycroft said.

“Why? And before you answer, think about your husband’s honesty and reflect that in your carefully chosen reply.”

Mycroft paused for a second before speaking. “Because it’ll improve our ability to monitor traffic patterns.”

“And?”

“And it would save about £2million.”

Sylvia nodded. “And there we have it, Mr Lestrade. An honest answer from a gentleman who does not always wish to give one. I will sign your papers, Mr Holmes. If only because I have had the privilege of meeting your partner.”

Mycroft smiled. “Thank you.”

“You are welcome. And happy birthday, of course. Now, if you excuse me, there are a number of people here also begging for my signature. But since it isn’t their birthdays, I doubt they will be so fortunate.” And with that she turned and walked away.

Greg laughed and looked at Mycroft. “Er. So.”

“Thank you,” Mycroft said.

Greg grinned. “You brought me over to her on purpose.”

“Yes,” Mycroft admitted. “And you were perfect. Shall we find another glass of wine?”

Greg nodded. “Cheers, yeah.”

They walked to the bar. Anthea joined them. “Two out of two, Mr Holmes?” she asked.

“Yes.”

Greg laughed. “I hate to think what you two are like at work. Do you ever lose?”

Anthea laughed. “Lose? Not a word in my vocabulary.”

Greg grinned and leaned against the bar with his new glass of wine. Anthea stood on one side of him, Mycroft the other, their arms pressed together. Greg tried not to notice it. But as Mycroft shifted slightly, Greg went with him so they never lost the contact.

“Target two will be more difficult,” Anthea said. “He’s late, as usual. He’s made us late three times this month alone. I schedule Mr Holmes to the precise second. And he messes up everything.”

“To the second?” Greg asked. “You’re exaggerating, right?”

“No. To the second.”

Greg glanced at Mycroft who smiled a bit and sipped his drink. Greg laughed. “Yep. Your office sounds like a scary place.”

“I would never dream of saying such a thing,” Mycroft said, amusement in his eyes as he glanced at Anthea.

She rolled her eyes. “Nothing would get done without me.”

“I quite agree,” Mycroft said and he and Greg exchanged a smile. “Excuse me. I have found our final target.”

Greg smiled and watched him go.

“I need to go for this one,” Anthea said. “Go and talk to Arnou.”

Greg nodded and watched her walk with Mycroft. Arnou was stood by the windows looking outside and he grinned at Greg. “Is she working?” he asked.

Greg nodded. “Yeah.”

Arnou turned to watch her. “She’s amazing when she’s working. I’ve never met anyone so focused.”

“What do you do?”

“I’m an artist,” Arnou said. “Sculptures mainly.”

Greg glanced at him. Anthea married to a sculptor?

“I’m the boring one,” Arnou said. “She’s unbelievable.”

Greg looked at where Anthea and Mycroft stood, charming smiles on both their faces. Greg knew Mycroft well enough to know his wasn’t particularly genuine. But Anthea looked almost as though she was flirting. If she was, Arnou didn’t seem bothered as he watched.

They stood together sipping their wine. Eventually Mycroft shook hands with the man and he and Anthea returned to Greg and Arnou.

“We’ll be leaving,” Anthea said, kissing Mycroft on both cheeks. “We don’t get many nights off together.” She kissed Greg’s cheek. “It was nice to get to know you better.”

Greg shook Arnou’s hand and Mycroft did the same. “Thank you both for coming,” Mycroft said.

“Happy birthday, Mr Holmes,” Anthea said as she and Arnou linked hands and walked away.

“One final glass before we leave?” Mycroft asked. “Perhaps we can make our own getaway to the other side of the bar.”

Greg smiled. “Sure. It’s your birthday, whatever you want.”

He followed Mycroft to the bar where he got them each another drink. He found them some chairs around the corner. “This certainly has been productive,” Mycroft said as he took a seat.

“I’m glad it’s been a good night.”

“The stegosaurus bottle holder was the the high point.”

Greg laughed. “I’m glad you liked it.”

“Very much so.”

Greg smiled and sipped his wine. “So, you finally joined the 40 club.”

“Why do you remind me?”

“Because you took a lot of joy in reminding me when I turned 40.”

“I take it all back,” Mycroft said. “Every word.”

Greg laughed and nudged his foot under the table. “Feel any different?”

Mycroft smiled. “Not at all. Although, my birthday seems remarkably useful for settling disagreements, so I may do this every year.”

“You should. I’ll come and entertain you whenever you want.”

“Do you have anymore jokes?” Mycroft asked.

“How do you organise a space party?”

“I don’t know.”

“You planet.”

Mycroft groaned. “That was dreadful.”

Greg laughed. “C’mon, you know you want to smile a bit.”

Mycroft glared at him and Greg laughed harder. And then Mycroft chuckled, almost despite himself. Greg smiled as he watched him. They held each other’s gaze for a moment before each looking away.

“So, how often do you come to parties like this?” Greg asked.

“Too often, but I usually only stay for a few minutes. It depends on the occasion and what I need to get from it.”

Greg nodded. “Must get boring.”

“It’s not my favourite thing, I admit. Anthea makes it bearable. You made it enjoyable, and for that I’m grateful.”

“I wasn’t fishing for compliments.”

“I know. But take it regardless.” Greg smiled and Mycroft looked at his pocket watch. “I have a very early start tomorrow and must get home. Can I get you a lift with me or would you like to stay longer?”

Greg shook his head and stood up. “No, I’ll come with you.”

He followed Mycroft out of the building and into the car. Mycroft put the stegosaurus wine holder on his lap. “Your gifts are very thoughtful,” Mycroft said.

“I try.”

“You succeeded.”

Greg smiled across at him as the car started to move. “I had a really good time.”

Mycroft looked at him. “I thought you would be bored.”

“I wasn’t. I’m not when I’m out with you, it’s always good.” Greg bit his lip. Crap, perhaps he shouldn't have said that.

Mycroft glanced out of the window. “Yes,” was all he said in reply.

They sat in silence the rest of the way. The driver parked the car outside Greg’s flat and Mycroft looked at him. “Thank you, Greg.”

Greg shook his head. “No need. Hope you enjoyed your birthday.”

They both looked at each other for a second before Greg opened the door and got out. He couldn’t bring himself to watch the car drive away. 

 

* * *

 

  _November, 2009_

Mycroft sent Greg a card for his birthday, just a simple one which said: _To Greg, Happy birthday, Kindest regards, Mycroft Holmes._ He’d also sent a little book of jokes. Mycroft had circled the ones he’d found funny. Greg kept the book stored in the top drawer of the desk in his office to bring out when he was having a bad day.

 

* * *

 

Sally walked into Greg’s office just as he was shredding some paperwork. She put a copy of The Daily Express down on the desk. Greg glanced at it.

_Boy, 18, kills himself inside sports centre._

Greg glanced at Sally. “Why are you showing me this?”

“Dimmock’s trying to give it to us.”

Greg frowned and put some more paper in the shredder. “Why? It’s suicide. Nothing to do with us.”

“They’re looking at a link between James Phillimore and Sir Jeffrey Patterson,” Sally told him.

“They’re suicides. They’re not linked.”

Sally nodded. “I know. But Patterson was wealthy and they’re putting pressure on people. They don’t believe it was suicide.”

Greg frowned and leaned onto the desk to read the article. “What the hell does this sentence mean? Police are describing his death as suicide and have apparently ruled out foul play. What is apparently ruled out foul play supposed to mean? Either we have or we haven’t.”

Sally shrugged. “What shall I tell Dimmock?”

“Tell him no. I’m not taking this. It’s suicide. Tell him to get the Pattersons to back off.”

“They’re offering a big donation to the Care Of Police Survivors charity if we keep looking into it.”

“Of course they are,” Greg muttered. “But I’m still not taking it. And Dimmock knows better than to be bribed like that. It’s suicide, Donovan. And don’t let Dimmock bring me stuff like this again. He’s a DI now, he can do it for himself. I’m not propping him up to make him look better.”

 

* * *

 

_December, 2009_

Greg worked over Christmas again. He couldn’t bear the thought of being at home.

He couldn’t explain to Jane exactly why he hated it so much, especially when they’d spent a lovely one at home a few years ago.

But they celebrated the day after Boxing Day instead.

Greg had sent Mycroft back the joke book with the ones he found funny circled as well. They had quite a similar sense of humour.

Mycroft sent him a small Venus fly trap plant. As Greg put it on his desk, it amused him to think they now had matching plants.

 

* * *

 

_January, 2010_

Greg frowned when he answered the door to his and Jane’s flat to see Sherlock standing there, a bag in hand. “I’m sleeping on your sofa,” Sherlock explained, walking straight past him into the flat.

“What?” Greg asked, turning and staring at him. “What happened to your old place?”

“Disagreement with the landlord.”

“What the hell did you do?”

“I only paid half the rent. Since Mycroft was responsible for losing me my flatmate, it seemed the right thing to do.”

“Sherlock, you can’t just barge in here.”

“Why not? I’ve stayed here before.”

“Yes,” Greg agreed. “But under very different circumstances.”

Louis walked right up to Sherlock and rubbed against his legs. Greg supposed the dog warmed to him because he didn’t know half the insulting things Sherlock had said to his owners.

Jane walked out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel. She looked between Greg and Sherlock. “Is he on drugs?” she asked.

“No. Disagreement with the landlord,” Greg explained.

She nodded. “Just clear up after yourself,” was all she said as she walked into the bedroom.

Sherlock flashed Greg a disingenuous smile.

Greg huffed and crossed his arms. “Just don’t leave your shit all over the floor.”

 

* * *

 

Sherlock had only stayed with them for three days when he wandered straight into Greg’s office, picking some paperwork up and flicking through it. “It’s the son,” he said. “Angry he didn’t get the promotion in the family business.”

Greg sighed and took the paper from him. “Thanks for that.”

“I found a new place to live,” Sherlock told him, taking a seat.

Greg smiled. “About time.”

“I need you to help me move in. I’ve booked a van, but I need to carry everything up the stairs.”

“By help, do you mean you’ll actually be taking part? Because I know what happened last time when I put all your furniture together and you didn’t even offer to help me.”

“I solve your cases. It’s the least you can do.”

“Sherlock, you solve my cases because you’d be off your face on drugs without them.” Greg frowned. “Right. Here’s a deal. I’ll help you move in if you give me a key to your new place.”

Sherlock frowned. “Why?”

“Because sometimes I want to come and check your place for drugs.”

Sherlock glared at him. He pulled up his jacket sleeve, revealing his nicotine patch. “I don’t smoke. I’m not on drugs.”

Greg unbuttoned his cuff and pulled up his own shirt sleeve. He was also wearing a nicotine patch. Sherlock looked at his arm. Greg thought perhaps Sherlock liked this. Knowing he wasn’t alone in his addictions and vices. “I’m not smoking either,” Greg said. “Seven months, Sherlock.”

“I know.” They looked at each other. It made Greg smile. It struck him, not for the first time, how much Sherlock had changed since he’d met him. The man was still an enigma. But he’d mellowed a lot. He’d grown up. Mostly. Sometimes he was still like a child, but sometimes there were flashes of a man maturing. Someone slowly just beginning to find their place in the world. Greg was proud of him.

They both put their sleeves back down. “I’ll help you move in,” Greg said. “But I still want a key.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Fine.”

Greg grinned. “Good man. Where you moving to?”

“221b Baker Street.”

“Baker Street?” Greg repeated. “You can barely afford the place in Montague Street, how are you going to afford Baker Street?”

“Landlady’s giving me a discount.”

“Who’s the landlady?”

“Mrs Hudson.”

Greg frowned. “How did you convince her to give you a discount? You threaten to reveal some terrible secret of hers or something?”

“No. I ensured her husband was executed.”

“Wait,” Greg murmured. “The bloke Mycroft sent you to save? But you ended up having him killed. This is his wife?”

“Yes.”

Greg shook his head. “You never fail to surprise me.”

“I will, of course, need a flatmate. I’m not sure where I’ll find one of those. Who’d want to live with me?”

“No idea,” Greg agreed. “So, you need a flatmate to afford the rent, but you’re making me move you in anyway?”

“Mycroft will sort if necessary.”

Greg snorted. “And we both know how well that went last time. You ended up on my sofa.”

“Are you moving me in tomorrow or not?”

“Yeah. Yeah, fine, I’m moving you in. I’ll meet you at Baker Street at 8am.”

“Fine.” Sherlock turned and walked towards the door.

“Going to say thank you?” Greg called after him, grinning and knowing he wouldn’t get a reply. There wasn’t one. That just made him laugh.

 

* * *

 

Greg met Sherlock at Baker Street the next day. He stared up at the posh black door with the fancy knocker. It almost wasn’t fair that a man with no real job somehow managed to live in a place like this.

He knocked on the door. A woman wearing a floral dress answered it.

“I’m here to see Sherlock,” Greg said. “I’m helping him move in.”

“Oh, go right ahead, dear,” the woman said. “Follow me. I’m Mrs Hudson, his landlady.”

“Greg Lestrade.”

“Oh, lovely. Will you be moving in?”

“No, no. I’m just carrying boxes and stuff in.”

Mrs Hudson knocked on the door at the top of the stairs and opened it. Sherlock was just putting a skull on the fireplace. “Lestrade. Excellent. The van will be here in five minutes.”

Greg looked around. There was already a table in the kitchen and a couple of chairs. A bookcase was propped up by the window. “Mostly boxes then?” he asked.

“Do you boys want a tea?” Mrs Hudson asked. “Just this once, dear, I won’t be your housekeeper.”

“Coffee for me please,” Greg said. “Just milk.”

“Tea,” Sherlock said.

She smiled and bustled out. Greg looked out of the window. “Good place here. I can see why you chose it.” He watched as a van pulled up outside. “Right, come on.”

Greg did most of the carrying, bringing boxes, lamps and pictures to and from the van, helped by the driver. Sherlock unpacked them (sort of). He did at least fill the shelves with books and set up an experiment with huge test tubes Greg didn’t want to go too near.

Greg collected the last box from the van and opened his own car. He pulled out the Union Flag cushion and carried it upstairs. He held it out to Sherlock. “Housewarming gift.”

Sherlock stared at it. “I have one already.”

“Yeah, but have you seen how disgusting it looks? Throw it out. Keep this one.”

Sherlock nodded and took it from him. He put it down on top of one of the boxes

“Right,” Greg said, looking around at the mess. He wasn’t going to get involved in sorting the chaos out. “I’m done.”

“Finally.”

Greg folded his arms. “I kept up my end of the deal. Where’s yours?”

Sherlock pulled a face.

“Come on.” Greg held his hand out. “Give.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and took a key out of his coat pocket, handing it over to Greg. “Good man. I’ll be in touch.” Greg smiled and left 221b, shaking his head in bemusement. 


	42. A Bullet From A Stolen Gun

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like you've all been waiting for this one!  
> Thank you to Jalizar, ahutchga1972, psychicdreams, MoonRiver, ladyxdarcy, JustLookFrightenedAndScuttle, ivefoundmygoldfish (melonpanparade), KingTaran, Jaeh, WhiskeySally, CommunionNimrod, Jill, Marie1982, miss_anthr0pe, Per_Solem, Mice, beccab (I've just realised how sad Greg looks in your display pic, bless his heart!) and polux. Much love!  
> Also - this chapter would have been impossible without the transcript from here: http://arianedevere.livejournal.com/43794.html

_January, 2010_

Greg was half-way through his first coffee on January 28 when the Superintendent barged straight in, followed by DI Dimmock. “I can sort it, sir,” Dimmock was saying.

Greg stood up. “What’s up?” he asked.

The Superintendent handed over some pictures and files. “There’s been another suicide, Lestrade. We’re giving it to you.”

Greg frowned and looked down at the pictures of the body. “You’re giving me suicides. I deal with murders and serious crimes, not suicides.”

“Linked suicides,” the Superintendent said, as though Greg would bounce up and down in joy at the thought of linked suicides.

“How the hell do you have linked suicides?” Greg asked.

“That’s what we want you to investigate.”

Greg rolled his eyes. “Who is this?”

“An MP. Beth Davenport.”

Greg bit his lip. High-profile then. The journalists would need to know, if they didn’t already. “What do I need to know?” Greg asked.

“We’ve got a press conference organised at 1.30pm.”

Greg groaned. “And what else?”

“All the victims took the same poison. Apparently voluntarily. And they were all found somewhere no one expected them to be.”

Dimmock reluctantly put his own files on the desk. “Enjoy,” he sneered as he stalked out. Greg sighed as they left. He reached for his phone and gave Sherlock’s mobile a try. No reply. He sent a text.

 

MESSAGES  
9.21am: Got another suicide.  
Apparently linked. Could use  
your help.

 

He typed out an email, just for good measure.

 

To: Holmes, Sherlock  
Subject: Please call me  
Please call me  
Lestrade.

 

At 12.30pm, having heard nothing and spent the last three hours with Sally looking at the paperwork, he stood up. “I’m going to try Sherlock again. I’ll pop round his flat, see if he’s in.”

Sally rolled her eyes. “Bet you a fiver he says no.”

Greg laughed. “You’re on.”

He drove to Baker Street and let himself in at the bottom door. He banged on Sherlock’s door for a few minutes. He was tempted to open it and see for himself whether Sherlock was in, but decided Sherlock deserved some privacy. If he wasn’t in, he shouldn’t have Greg barging in anyway.

He drove back to the Yard and left Sherlock a message on The Science Of Deduction website.

_I’ve tried your mobile, your email and I’ve been round to your flat. There’s been another one._

At 1.25pm, Sally collected him to go to the press room. His phone beeped and he looked at it. Sherlock had responded to his message on the website. All it said was ‘busy.’

Greg sighed. Fine. He had absolutely no idea how he was going to explain this one. He took a seat in the press conference room, Sally sat beside him.

Greg looked at the crowd of journalists, counting them out. There were around 18, including two camera men, which was more than he was used to. God, he hated this. He felt like a deer strolling straight into the lion’s den. Worse than that. He was a deer _knowingly_ walking into the lion’s den without an escape route to speak of.

He shuffled in his chair, trying to work out if he recognised any of them.

“Can we start?” Sally asked. The cameras began clicking. “The body of Beth Davenport, Junior Minister for Transport was found late last night on a building site in Greater London. Preliminary investigations suggest that this was suicide. We can confirm this apparent suicide closely resembles those of Sir Jeffrey Patterson and James Phillimore. In the light of this, these incidents are now being treated as linked. The investigation is ongoing but Detective Inspector Lestrade will take questions now.”

Greg twiddled him thumbs. He was not looking forward to this. How the hell do you describe ‘linked suicides?’

“Detective Inspector, how can suicides be linked?” the first reporter asked.

Jolly good question, sir. Wish you could come and tell me. “Well, they all took the same poison. Um. They were all found in places they had no reason to be. None of them had shown any prior indication of-”

“-But you can’t have serial suicides.”

“Well, apparently you can,” Greg said.

“These three people. There’s nothing that links them?”

Greg sighed. “There’s no link been found yet, but we’re looking for it. There has to be one.”

There was a sound of text alerts throughout the room. Greg glanced at Sally. Not again, he thought. They each looked at their phone. 

 

MESSAGES Sherlock Holmes  
Wrong!

 

Sally held her hands up. “If you’ve all got texts, please ignore them.”

Greg looked down at the message again. Next time he found that man there was no telling what he would do to him…

“Just says ‘wrong’,” a reporter said.

“Yeah, well, just ignore that,” Sally said. “Okay, if there are no more questions for Detective Inspector Lestrade, I’m going to bring this session to an end.”

“But if they’re suicides, what are you investigating?” a reporter asked.

Greg pressed his lips together. “As I say, these… these suicides are clearly linked. Um, it’s an unusual situation. We’ve got our best people investigating-”

The sound of text alerts filled the room again. Greg looked at his phone.

 

MESSAGES Sherlock Holmes  
Wrong!

 

Greg put his phone back down on the table.

“Says ‘wrong’ again,” a journalist said.

Greg looked over at Sally despairingly, silently willing her to end this now.

“One more question,” she said.

Greg pressed his lips together.

“Is there any chance that these are murders?” a female journalist asked. “And if they are, is this the work of a serial killer?”

Serial killer? Greg shook his head. “I know that you like writing about these, but these do appear to be suicides. We know the difference.” He hoped. “The poison was clearly self-administered.”

“Yes, but if they are murders, how do people keep themselves safe?”

“Well, don’t commit suicide.” Oh. Bollocks. He regretted those words instantly. Who in their right might thought speak-first-think-about-it-later-Lestrade was the right person to do press conferences? The reporter stared at him.

Sally glanced at him. “Daily Mail,” she muttered.

Greg winced. Now he had to come up with something quotable to beat that. Fat chance. “Obviously this is a frightening time for people, but all anyone has to do is exercise reasonable precautions. We are all as safe as we want to be.”

The phones went off again. Greg glanced down at his and frowned. He hadn’t got one. Then the message came through.

 

MESSAGES Sherlock Holmes  
You know where to find me. SH

 

Greg sighed and put his phone into his pocket. “Thank you,” he said. He led Sally out of the press room. “Shit!” he said.

“Don’t commit suicide?” Sally repeated. “What were you thinking?”

“Not much, obviously,” Greg replied. “Why do they keep putting me up for press conferences? I hate the bloody things. That’s twice Sherlock’s done that to us now.”

“You’ve got to stop him doing that. He’s making us look like idiots.”

“Well, if you can tell me how he does it, I’ll stop him.” Or try to anyway, Greg thought. His track record on stopping Sherlock from doing anything wasn’t great. “I’m going to my office to try and find some sort of link or something. The sooner we can put this to an end to this the better.”

“Well, that goes without saying,” Sally said from behind him.

Greg rolled his eyes at her as his phone beeped again.

 

MESSAGES Sherlock Holmes  
If brother has green ladder arrest  
brother. SH

 

Greg frowned. So, Holmes junior wasn’t interested in the linked suicides because he was ‘busy’, but he was more than happy to tell him the answers for cases they were working on a few days before. Bloody typical.

He sat down at his desk and refreshed Sherlock’s website. Sherlock had left a new message on the forum. It simply said:  _WRONG! WRONG! WRONG! WRONG!_

Greg rolled his eyes. _THEN HELP US,_ he typed. _PEOPLE ARE DYING, SHERLOCK_

Sally walked into the office and held her hand out. Greg took out his wallet and handed her £5. 

 

* * *

 

 He got home that evening and found Jane already in bed reading a book, curled up with Louis. She glanced at him. “Don’t commit suicide?” she asked.

Greg groaned. “Don’t.”

She laughed. “Sorry, babe. Rough day?”

He leaned down to kiss her. “Usual. I think I’m going to be working late on this one. I’m going to set up in the living room and do some reports.”

She nodded. “No worries. I’ll just be here.” She smiled at him and returned to her book.

Greg sat up for the next few hours, trying to find some sort of link and going over the files from Bart’s again. At 12.04am, he called it a night and slid into bed beside his wife.

 

* * *

 

  _Greg was pressed up against the wall. He was naked, but for a tie wrapped around his neck. Soft lips were kissing down his back, just trailing lower and lower. He groaned, tipping his head back, as he got lost in the sensations._

_“You’re so receptive, Detective Inspector,” Mycroft’s voice murmured as he stood up, unbuttoning his trousers._

_“Yeah, please,” Greg said. “God, I want you.”_

_“How much?” Mycroft whispered against his ear._

_The words formed a knot in Greg’s throat. He couldn’t say it._

Greg woke up hard at 5.41am Jane glanced over at him and kissed him and they made love in the morning for the first time in months. Greg felt guilty that he’d been so up for it because he had been dreaming of someone else.

 

* * *

 

 Greg’s photo was in the paper that day.

_Police warning: don’t commit suicide._

Greg groaned when he read it.

 

* * *

 

 Greg sat in the car with PC Sam Brockhurst as they drove from court on the 30th. They’d just got a brilliant ‘guilty’ plea in a case from late in 2009. “This deserves beer,” Sam said. “Lots and lots of beer.”

Greg glanced at him and laughed. “Yeah, I’m with you on that one.” Greg’s phone began to ring. “Can you check that for me?”

“Sure.” Sam picked it up. “It’s Donovan.”

“Answer it,” Greg said as they stopped at some lights.

“Hi. No, it’s Sam, Lestrade’s driving. Bugger, really? Yeah, bloke pleaded guilty. Alright. Hang on a sec, I’ll just tell him.” Sam put the phone down. “Lestrade? There’s been another suicide case. In Brixton.”

“What?” Greg asked. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah. What do you want me to tell Sally?”

Greg pulled a face. “Tell her I’ll drop you off at the station and she should go to the scene. Get Anderson on it. I’m going to see if I can convince Sherlock to have a look.”

Sam filled Sally in and took the details, before relaying it back to Greg. Greg dropped Sam off at the Yard and drove straight for Baker Street with the music turned up loud in his car.

He pulled up outside the building and let himself in at the bottom door before jogging up the stairs. The door to Sherlock’s flat was already open.

“Where?” Sherlock asked as he walked in.

“Brixton. Lauriston Gardens.”

“What’s new about this one? You wouldn’t have come to get me if there wasn’t something different.”

“You know how they never leave notes?” Greg asked.

“Yeah.”

“This one did. Will you come?”

“Who’s on forensics?”

Greg pulled a face. Sherlock wouldn’t like the answer. “It’s Anderson.”

“Anderson won’t work with me.”

“Well, he won’t be your assistant,” Greg said.

“I need an assistant.”

“Will you come?” Greg repeated.

“Not in a police car. I’ll be right behind.”

Greg sighed gratefully. “Thank you.” He glanced at the blond man on the chair and then at Mrs Hudson before turning and running downstairs.

He drove straight to the crime scene where Sally was stood outside. “Freak coming?” she asked.

“Yeah. I wish you’d stop calling him that. Radio me when he’s here?”

Sally nodded. “Sure.”

Greg walked into the building and up the stairs. Anderson walked over. “Don’t tell me. Sherlock Holmes is coming.”

“He is,” Greg said. “Please try and play nice. I’ve tried to keep the two of you apart, but you’re both the best I’ve got.” Anderson frowned at him for a moment. Greg raised his eyebrows. “Problem?”

“No,” Anderson said, still looking stunned at the compliment. “I’m just going outside to get some more equipment. We’ve got officers setting up some more lighting.”

Greg nodded and looked at his phone. “Cheers, Anderson.”

Anderson walked out and Greg’s radio cackled with Sally’s voice. “Freak’s here,” she said. “Bringing him in.”

Greg rolled his eyes as he began to put the overalls on. Sherlock walked in, followed by the man from his flat earlier. Sherlock pointed to the forensics gear. “You meed to wear one of these,” he said to the light-haired man.

“Who’s this?” Greg asked, frowning.

“He’s with me,” Sherlock said.

“But who is he?”

“I said he’s with me,” Sherlock said, looking at Greg with a warning look in his eyes.

Greg eyed Sherlock curiously. He’d never brought someone to a crime scene before. In fact, Greg had never really seen him with another person before. The smaller man was putting on an overall while Sherlock put on some gloves.

“Her name’s Jennifer Wilson according to her credit cards,” Greg explained as he led them up the stairs. “We’re running them now for contact details. Hasn’t been here long. Some kids found her.”

Greg led them into an empty room, with only a small rocking horse in the corner. The bright lights had already been set up by the police officers, giving the room a strangely stark appearance. Greg stood still, watching as Sherlock gazed at the body. Sherlock turned to him. “Shut up,” he said.

Greg stared at him. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You were thinking. It’s annoying.”

Greg glanced at the other man who seemed as surprised as him. He wasn’t a long-standing friend of Sherlock’s then. University friend maybe? It seemed unlikely, with Sherlock being so friendless all the years Greg had known him. He supposed it could be a new flatmate, but why would Sherlock have brought him to a crime scene?

Sherlock knelt down beside the body and Greg watched as he analysed her. He couldn’t help but enjoy watching Sherlock in his element, wandering at the things running through his head.

Sherlock slid a ring off the woman’s finger and studied it before putting it back on. He smiled in satisfaction. Greg glanced over to where Anderson stood in the doorway. “Got anything?” Greg asked Sherlock.

“Not much.” Sherlock stood up and took his gloves off, taking his phone out from his pocket and tapping away.

“What about the message though?” Greg asked.

Sherlock turned to the light-haired man. “Doctor Watson, what do you think?”

“Of the message?” the man asked.

“Of the body. You’re a medical man.”

Oh no, Greg thought. Bringing in Sherlock was one thing. Sherlock bringing in a hanger-on was another thing. But Sherlock inviting the hanger-on to give his thoughts was a whole different story. Greg invited Sherlock, not his - friend? Accomplice? “Wait, no, we have a whole team right outside,” Greg said.

“They won’t work with me,” Sherlock replied.

“I’m breaking every rule letting you in here.”

Sherlock turned to him. “Yes. Because you need me.”

Greg stared back. Damn it. He lowered his eyes. “Yes. I do. God help me.”

He waited as Sherlock allowed Doctor Watson control of the scene, that the woman died from asphyxiation. 

Sherlock looked up at Greg and they held each other’s eyes. Greg offered him a half nod. He trusted Sherlock. Not completely, he couldn’t, but enough that he would trust his judgement on this one. Sherlock returned the curt nod.

“Passed out, choked on her own vomit,” Doctor Watson continued. “Can’t smell any alcohol on her. It could have been a seizure. Possibly drugs.”

“You know what it was,” Sherlock said. “You’ve read the papers.”

“What, she’s one of the suicides? The fourth?”

“Sherlock, two minutes, I said,” Greg warned. “I need anything you’ve got.”

Sherlock began to stand up as he spoke. “Victim is in her late 30s. Professional person, going by her clothes. I’m guessing something in the media, going by the frankly alarming shade of pink. Travelled from Cardiff today, intending to stay in London for one night. It’s obvious from the size of her suitcase.”

“Suitcase?” Greg repeated.

“Suitcase, yes. She’s been married at least 10 years, but not happily. She’s had a string of lovers but none of them knew she was married.”

Greg stared at him. “Oh, for God’s sake, if you’re just making this up-”

Sherlock pointed to her. “Her wedding ring. Ten years old at least. The rest of her jewellery has been regularly cleaned, but not her wedding ring. State of her marriage right there. The inside of the ring is shinier than the outside. That means it’s regularly removed. The only polishing it gets is when she works it off her finger.”

Greg frowned. Jane’s ring. On top of her jewellery box. He couldn’t think about that right now.

“It’s not for work,” Sherlock continued. “Look at her nails. She doesn’t work with her hands, so what or rather who does she remove her rings for? Clearly not one lover. She’d never sustain the fiction of being single over that amount of time, so more likely a string of them. Simple.”

And then Sherlock deduced. Her coat, her life, the wind, the suitcase. 

Greg frowned. “Why d’you keep saying suitcase?”

Sherlock spun around to look at the room. “Yes, where is it? She must have had a phone or an organiser. Find out who Rachel is.”

“She was writing ‘Rachel’?” Greg asked.

Sherlock stepped closer to him. “No, she was leaving an angry note in German. Of course she was writing Rachel, no other word it can be. Question is, why did she wait until she was dying to write it?”

“How d’you know she had a suitcase?” Greg asked.

Sherlock pointed back to her body. “Back of the right leg. Tiny splash marks on the heel and calf, not present on the left. She was dragging a wheeled suitcase behind her with her right hand. Don’t get that splash pattern any other way. Smallish case, going by the spread. Case that size, woman this clothes-conscious. Could only be an overnight bag, so we know she was staying one night. Now, where is it? What have you done with it?”

“There wasn’t a case,” Greg murmured.

Sherlock looked up at him and frowned. “Say that again.”

“There wasn’t a case. There was never any suitcase.”

Sherlock barged past him, calling out to the officers in the building. “Suitcase! Did anyone find a suitcase? Was there a suitcase in this house?”

Greg and Doctor Watson followed him out onto the landing. Greg called down to him. “Sherlock, there was no case!”

Sherlock looked up at him. “But they take the poison themselves. They chew, swallow the pills themselves. There are clear signs, even you lot couldn’t miss them.”

“Right, yeah, thanks,” Greg muttered. “And?”

Sherlock looked thoughtful. “It’s murder, all of them. I don’t know how, but they’re not suicides, they’re killings. Serial killings. We’ve got ourselves a serial killer. I love those. There’s always something to look forward to.”

And then, not long after bemoaning the absence of the case, he was gone. 

Greg frowned, bewildered, as Anderson walked past him, saying “Let’s get on with it.” Greg sighed and followed him back into the room. Anderson was carefully cataloguing the crime scene.

“Anyone found a suitcase?” Greg asked as he watched Anderson look down at the body.

“No,” Anderson said.

Greg frowned. “Apparently Rache is Rachel.”

Anderson glared at him. “Can you stop talking about Sherlock Holmes for five minutes and let me do my job?”

Greg frowned. He pressed his lips together to prevent the outburst which was threatening. “Fine,” he muttered. He turned and jogged downstairs. Sally was talking to Doctor Watson outside. “Donovan!” he shouted to her.

“Coming,” she said, and Greg turned back into the house.

Greg looked around the other rooms, hunting high and low for a suitcase. He couldn’t find one. Sally found him a few minutes later. “There’s meant to be a suitcase,” Greg said. “But we can’t find one. No phone either.”

Sally watched him. “Who was that?”

“Who was who?”

“The guy with the freak.”

Greg shrugged. “I dunno. Some Doctor Watson apparently. I’ll find out when we’re done with this case.”

“Never seen him with someone before,” Sally said.

“Me neither. But it’s not really my concern at the moment. We need to find this suitcase.” Greg frowned as he realised. “Oh, bugger. You know who will find it?”

“Who?”

“Sherlock.”

Sally rolled her eyes. “Won’t be the first time he’s taken evidence, I suppose. What are you thinking?”

“We’ll go back to the Yard and wait an hour or two. Then go stage a drugs bust.”

Sally looked gleeful. “I know a few people who will be up for that. We won’t even need the drugs squad.”

Greg shook his head. “Fine. Get whoever wants to go. I’m heading to the Yard, then I’ll meet you at 221 Baker Street at say…” Greg checked his watch. “About 9.30pm?”

Sally nodded. “See you then, sir. I’ll get a team together.”

Greg smiled at her and left for the Yard. He dropped in at home on the way to grab a bite of dinner. Jane wasn’t home yet, which was odd, but since Greg was working so late it wasn’t totally surprising. He made himself a sandwich and drove back to work. As he sat at his desk, he picked up his phone and text Mycroft.

 

MESSAGES  
7.21pm: Your brother has a  
new friend. Any idea who he  
is?

 

MESSAGES Mycroft Holmes  
7.45pm: Dr John Watson. Fifth  
Northumberland Fusiliers.  
Sherlock’s new flatmate. M

 

MESSAGES  
7.48pm: Can I trust him?

 

MESSAGES Mycroft Holmes  
7.51pm: Yes. M

 

Greg glanced at the text. Mycroft’s opinion was all he needed to know.

A couple of hours later, Greg met Sally, Anderson, Piper, Leon and Sam outside 221 Baker Street. Although he had a key, he chose to knock on the door. He held out his badge as Mrs Hudson opened the door. “Me and a couple of officers need to go to Sherlock Holmes’ flat,” he said.

She stared at him but stepped aside to let Sally and Anderson through. “He won’t have done anything, Inspector,” she said. “He’s a good one, saved me in America years ago.”

“We’ll be the judge of that, I’m afraid,” Greg said.

“Oh dear,” Mrs Hudson murmured, returning to her flat.

Greg walked up the stairs to Sherlock’s flat and used the key to open the door. Sally glanced at him. “What?” Greg asked.

“You have a key?”

“Course I have a key. Right. We’re looking for anything drug-related. And we’re also looking for-” He glanced at the table. “Jennifer Wilson’s case.” He sighed. He’d hoped he would be wrong. But he wasn’t. Sherlock had taken evidence again. If he wanted to give people a reason to dislike him, he definitely went about it in the right way. “Proper drugs search,” Greg continued. “He usually hides them in his socks, but we’ll stay out here in the living room and kitchen for now. Don’t go anywhere else.”

“Why not?” Sally asked.

“Because I want to annoy him, not pull him up for using drugs.”

Sally stared at him. “You’re too soft on him.”

Greg shook his head as he sat down in one of the chairs. “Don’t do this now. Just look for drugs.”

It was half an hour before Sherlock burst in, followed by John. “What are you doing?” Sherlock demanded.

“Well, I knew you’d find the case,” Greg told him. “I’m not stupid.”

“You can’t just break into my flat.”

“And you can’t withhold evidence,” Greg reminded him. “And I didn’t break into your flat.”

“Well, what do you call this then?”

Greg looked around the room. “It’s a drugs bust,” he grinned. The very reason Sherlock agreed to give him a key in the first place.

“Seriously?” John asked. “This guy, a junkie? Have you met him?”

Sherlock approached John, and Greg grinned as he watched. Oh, this Doctor Watson didn’t know Sherlock very well at all.

“John,” Sherlock murmured.

John turned to face Greg. “I’m pretty sure you could search this flat all day, you wouldn’t find anything you could call recreational.”

Greg snorted.

“John, you probably want to shut up now,” Sherlock muttered.

“Yeah, but come on.” Greg watched as they both stared at each other. “No,” John finally said.

“What?” Sherlock asked.

“You?” John asked. Greg chuckled. He liked this one. John Watson could stay. He could use another person keeping Sherlock in line.

“Shut up!” Sherlock demanded, before turning to Greg. “I’m not your sniffer dog.”

“No,” Greg agreed. “Anderson’s my sniffer dog.”

He sat and watched as Sherlock and Anderson sniped and Sally found some eyeballs. He laughed, despite himself. He was all too familiar with all of this with Sherlock. But perhaps because he was so used to it, he no longer saw Sherlock’s rather strange habits as abnormal anymore. They were just parts of him. But he supposed for everyone else, for Sally, for Anderson, it was all rather horrific. They never had understood why Greg gave him so much time.

“Keep looking, guys,” Greg said. He stood up and looked at Sherlock. “Or you could help us properly and I’ll stand them down.”

“This is childish,” Sherlock muttered angrily.

“Well, I’m dealing with a child. Sherlock, this is our case. I’m letting you in, but you do not go off on your own. Clear?”

Sherlock glared at him “Oh, what, so you set up a pretend drugs bust to bully me?”

“It stops being pretend if they find anything,” Greg warned.

“I am clean!”

“Is your flat? All of it?”

“I don’t even smoke.” Sherlock unbuttoned the cuff on his left sleeve and rolled it up to reveal the nicotine patch beneath it.

“Neither do I,” Greg said, as he pulled up the right sleeve of his own shirt. This is us trusting each other. That was what it represented. You don’t do drugs and I don’t smoke and we stand together on this. We work together.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and turned away as they both pulled their sleeves up.

“So let’s work together,” Greg said. “We’ve found Rachel.”

“Who is she?”

“Jennifer Wilson’s only daughter.”

“You need to bring Rachel in,” Sherlock said. You need to question her. I need to question her.”

“She’s dead.”

“Excellent! How, when and why? Is there a connection? There has to be.”

“Well, I doubt it, since she’s been dead for 14 years,” Greg informed him. “Technically she was never alive. Rachel was Jennifer Wilson’s stillborn daughter, 14 years ago.”

Waiting for Sherlock to work something out could be infuriating. His mind whirring away behind his eyes. But then  there was that familiar look of realisation on Sherlock’s face. “Oh. Ah! She was clever, clever, yes! She’s cleverer than you lot and she’s dead. Do you see, do you get it? She didn’t lose her phone, she never lost it. She planted it on him.” He began to pace. “When she got out of the car, she knew that she was going to her death. She left the phone in order to lead us to her killer.”

“But how?” Greg asked.

“What? What do you mean, how?”

Greg shrugged.

“Rachel!” Sherlock exclaimed, as though it was so clear, Greg was being slapped around the face with the answer. “Don’t you see? Rachel! Oh, look at you lot. You’re all so vacant. Is it nice not being me? It must be so relaxing. Rachel is not a name.”

And apparently it was a password and they could access her emails. But just as it felt like they were onto something, Sherlock just left. He went away like nothing really mattered.

“Where are you going?” Greg called after him. 

“Fresh air. Just popping outside for a moment. Won’t be long.”

John sat back down at the computer and Greg sighed, looking around. He hated it when things made sense to Sherlock but not him. John looked out of the window. “He just got in a cab. It’s Sherlock. He just drove off in a cab.”

Sally walked beside Greg and tutted. “I told you, he does that.” She looked at Greg. “He bloody left again. We’re wasting our time,” she said as she walked back to the kitchen. Greg sighed. They weren’t wasting anything. Sherlock knew something, he always knew something.

“I’m calling the phone,” John said. “It’s ringing out.”

“If it’s ringing, it’s not here,” Greg said.

John turned back to the computer. “I’ll try the search again.”

“Does it matter?” Sally asked. “Does any of it? You know, he’s just a lunatic, and he’ll always let you down, and you’re wasting your time. All our time.” Greg looked at her, holding her stern gaze. Greg knew Sherlock didn’t always let him down. Sometimes he did, sometimes he messed up, but he didn’t always let him down. And even when he did…

Greg sighed. “Okay, everybody. Done here.”

He watched as the officers collected their gear. Did they resent him, he wondered? Dragging them here on a pretend drugs bust because he relied on Sherlock more than he relied on them?

“Why did he do that?” Greg asked John. “Why did he have to leave?”

“You know him better than I do,” John replied.

“I’ve known him for five years and no, I don’t.”

“So why do you put up with him?”

“Because I’m desperate, that’s why.” Greg turned and walked to the door. He hesitated. That wasn’t strictly true, was it? He turned back to John. “And because Sherlock Holmes is a great man. And I think one day, if we’re very, very lucky, he might even be a good one.”

He followed Sally down the stairs. “Don’t say a word,” Greg said as she looked at him. “Not a word, alright?”

“Should have put a bet on this one too,” she said.

Greg shook his head. “Don’t, alright? Just leave it.”

“So what now?” she asked.

“See if we can track the phone, I guess,” Greg said as he got in his car. “I’m going back to the Yard to look over this, see if there’s something else Sherlock missed. What are you doing?”

“Going home,” Sally said. “Text me if you need me?”

Greg nodded. “Course, yeah.”

He drove back to the Yard, considering. Why did Sherlock have to leave? He was so close to something, and then just. Well, that was Sherlock wasn’t it? Sherlock all over.

Greg got to the station and poured himself a coffee. He was there for an hour when he received a call that a man had been shot and killed at Roland Kerr Education College. That Sherlock had been there. That Sherlock may have almost died. Again.

Greg text Sally to let her know and raced over to the scene. The blue lights of police cars were already on full-alert, and he walked over to PC Leon Henman. “What’s happened?” he asked.

“Holmes was in the building with the suicide killer. He was just explaining it to me and Donovan. Apparently he had two bottles, one with pills to kill, the others just a placebo. And then he had a gun and he played a game with the victims on what ones they took, and he took the others. Apparently he always won.”

“Until tonight,” Greg murmured. “Who called us in?”

“No idea, sir. Anonymous call from a phone box apparently.”

“And they just shot him dead?” Greg asked.

Leon nodded. Greg spotted Sherlock sat at the back of an ambulance, a paramedic putting an orange blanket around his shoulders. Greg shook his head and walked over.

“Why have I got this blanket?” Sherlock asked. “They keep putting this blanket on me.”

“Yeah, it’s for shock,” Greg said.

“I’m not in shock.

“Yeah, but some of the guys wanna take photographs,” Greg said, grinning.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “So, the shooter. No sign?”

“Cleared off before we got here. But a guy like that would have had enemies, I suppose. One of them could have been following him but.” He shrugged. Time to appeal to Sherlock’s ego. Unleash it for the greater good and all that… “Got nothing to go on.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that.”

“Okay, gimme.”

Sherlock stood up. “The bullet they just dug out of the wall is from a hand gun. Kill shot over that distance from that kind of a weapon – that’s a crack shot you’re looking for, but not just a marksman. A fighter. His hands couldn’t have shaken at all, so clearly he’s acclimatised to violence. He didn’t fire until I was in immediate danger though, so strong moral principle. You’re looking for a man probably with a history of military service. And nerves of steel…” He trailed off. “Actually, do you know what?” Sherlock said. “Ignore me.”

“Sorry?”

“Ignore all of that. It’s just the, er, the shock talking.” He began to walk towards John.

“Where’re you going?” Greg called.

“I just need to talk about the rent.”

“But I’ve still got questions for you.”

“Oh, what now?” Sherlock demanded. “I’m in shock! Look, I’ve got a blanket!”

“Sherlock!”

“And I just caught you a serial killer,” Sherlock said. He frowned. “More or less.”

Greg watched him. Maybe he was more bothered by another near-death experience than he’d like to admit. “Okay. We’ll bring you in tomorrow. Off you go.”

Sherlock walked away and Greg smiled as he went to stand beside John Watson. Sam Brockhurst walked over to him.

“We haven’t got anything, sir,” he said.

“Yeah, thought that might be the case,” Greg said. “Well, at least this one is all wrapped up anyway. Thought it was going to be a right bugger when it started.”

“It didn’t make any sense,” Sam admitted. “Are we definitely sure that was the man?”

“Believe so,” Greg said. “I’m bringing Sherlock in tomorrow for a proper explanation but I’ll leave him for now. Give him some time to get rid of the shock or whatever.”

“It’s weird,” Sam said. “All of this is really strange.”

“You get some odd ones,” Greg agreed. “Going to be a lot of paperwork.”

“And more press conferences.”

Greg groaned. “Don’t talk to me about press conferences.”

Sam laughed. “Yeah, last one didn’t go very well.”

“Isn’t that the truth,” Greg muttered as Sally walked over. “Anything?” he asked her.

She shook her head. “No.” She looked back at Sherlock and John. “Pair of them are like a couple of giggling schoolgirls.”

Greg smiled a bit. “Might be good for him. Having a new friend.”

Sally shrugged. “Got to be a right sort to put up with Sherlock Holmes, that’s for sure.” She eyed Greg pointedly.

He laughed. “What? Was that aimed at me?”

“A bit,” she said.

“What now?” Greg asked.

“You just trust him. Whatever happens.”

“You know what he does, Donovan,” Greg said.

She sighed and nodded.

Sam looked over at them. “Never going to know another man like that as long as we live.”

“Thank God,” Sally muttered.

Greg laughed. He looked up as the black car pulled up to the scene. He knew that car. He watched as Mycroft - he could only assume through the darkness - rose from the car to speak to Sherlock and John.

Sally glanced over. “That’s him, isn’t it?” she asked, looking at Greg. “Mycroft Holmes.”

“Yeah,” Greg said. “Pretty sure it is.”

“What’s he doing here?”

“Probably keeping an eye on Sherlock. Not seen him at a crime scene before though.”

“Who’s Mycroft Holmes?” Sam asked.

“Sherlock’s brother.”

“Oh,” Sam said. “Your ex.”

Greg groaned. He could still kill Sherlock for revealing that to his entire team. “Do we have to mention that every single time he comes up in conversation? It’s been three years since we split up. You all came to my wedding.”

“How is Jane?” Sally asked. “I liked her.”

“Yeah, she’s good. Lots of projects at school. She’s looking for a promotion to become the coordinator for all of year three. She’s good.”

Sally smiled. “You’ll have to have another party sometime so I can meet her again.”

“Yeah!” Sam agreed. “Actually, I’ll host one. How about that?”

“No sambuca!” Greg said quickly.

Sam laughed. “It’s my birthday in March. I’ll sort something out.”

“Can’t barbecue in March,” Greg said.

“That was an amazing barbecue you did at the wedding,” Sally agreed.

Sam smiled. “I tried,” he said. “No one got food poisoning as far as I know.”

“I had a horrible hangover though,” Sally said.

Greg looked over to where Mycroft was. Sherlock and John had just begun to walk away. He bit his lip. “Hey, excuse me a sec, yeah?”

He started to walk away and Sally touched his arm. He looked at her. “Don’t let the Holmes brothers run your life,” she said. “They both let you down.”

Greg frowned. “Thanks for your concern, but it’s fine,” he muttered.

He left them standing together as he walked to where Mycroft was now stood with Anthea. Mycroft looked up at him. “Good evening,” he said.

Greg smiled. “Night. Not used to seeing you at my crime scenes. Hi, Anthea.”

“Hello,” she said tightly, getting into the car.

“All a very curious case,” Mycroft said.

Greg nodded. “Pretty interesting, yeah. I didn’t want it at first, but now it just looks like a big old tick next to my name. Four solved murders to our department. All good for the statistics.”

“Don’t pretend it’s just statistics to you, Greg. I know it means more to you than that.”

Greg smiled. “I know. But that’s what keeps me in my job.”

“What did you make of Sherlock’s Doctor Watson?”

“Seems an alright bloke,” Greg said. “Doesn’t take any of his crap, so I’d say he’s the good sort.”

“He’s moving into 221b with him.”

“I know. It’s a nice flat. Well, with Sherlock’s usual mess.”

“He and I haven’t been on good terms recently,” Mycroft said.

“You know what he’s like.”

“Yes, indeed.”

“So, did you test him?” Greg asked. “Try to give him money?”

“Yes, and he did not accept.”

Greg nodded. “Anything I need to know?”

“No. I shouldn’t think so. Well.” Mycroft wavered a moment. “Perhaps another time,” he finally said.

“What’s wrong?”

Mycroft pulled a face. “It should wait, I’m afraid. Until Doctor Watson proves his use to you.”

“His use to me?” Greg repeated. “What’s he got to prove to me?”

“I don’t know yet.”

Greg nodded and leaned against the car. If it bothered Mycroft, he didn’t say a word.

“Would you like to have dinner in February?” Mycroft asked.

Greg nodded. “Yeah, whenever. I’m up for that.”

Mycroft smiled at him, but it hardly reached his eyes. “Well, I suppose I had better get back. Lovely to see you, Greg.”

Greg smiled at him. “Yeah. You too.”

Mycroft reached out and squeezed his shoulder before opening the car door and getting in. Greg stepped away from the car, swallowing. He watched the car go and he walked back to Sally to discuss the procedure for the case. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this chapter worked and wasn't too boring. If it doesn't work, then there's only eight and a bit more episodes, and one of them Greg isn't even in anyway!


	43. For All This Stolen Time, Someone Pays

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ooh, lots of slightly differing opinions to take on! Thank you all for your comments, it's really appreciated. Thank you especially goes to Mice, Dravni, carlene, psychicdreams, ahutchga1972, MoonRiver, JustLookFrightenedAndScuttle, ladyxdarcy, Spooky831, Sam, KingTaran, ainraatheexplorer, artemisdecibal, CommunionNimrod, WhiskeySally, Per_Solem, Jill, ivefoundmygoldfish (melonpanparade) and earlgreywithcream.

_January, 2010_

In a morning bucketing it down with rain, Sherlock and John arrived at Greg’s office. Sherlock walked straight in, John following behind him. Greg stood up to greet them.

“Why do we have to be here?” Sherlock demanded. “You know everything you need to know.”

“No, I don’t,” Greg said. “I’ve got reports to fill in to explain how on earth we ended up with a dead serial killer.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Would either of you like a drink?” Greg asked, walking round to the kettle. “This might take a while.”

“Tea, please,” John Watson said as Sherlock slunk into a seat. John grabbed a chair from the meeting table and took a seat. “Milk, no sugar.”

Sherlock didn’t say a word but Greg made him a tea anyway. “So, how was the first night at Baker Street?” Greg asked.

“Yeah, fine,” John said.

“Get up to anything?”

“We had Chinese food. It was good. Sherlock seems to know all the really good restaurants in London.”

Greg nodded and handed them each a drink. He sat back down at his desk and picked up the form he was filling in. “Right, Sherlock. You left Baker Street to get into a taxi with a serial killer. Correct?”

Sherlock sighed. “This is all so tedious.”

“Sherlock,” Greg warned. “You got into a taxi with a serial killer. Right?”

“Yes.”

“Then what?”

“He drove to Roland Kerr Education College. He had two jars, one with pills which would kill and one with a placebo. He told the victims to pick one and he would take the other. He had a gun.”

Greg nodded and made some notes. “And what did you do?”

“What did I do?”

Greg looked at him. “Oh God, you were about to take one, weren’t you? Were you right? Did you choose the right pill?”

“I don’t know. Probably.”

“Maybe he beat you,” Greg said, a bit too gleefully.

“Maybe. But he’s dead.”

Greg nodded. “Yeah, he is.” He picked up the paperwork. “And look at what I have to fill in because of it. What happened?”

“I was about to take the pill and someone shot him through the window. You know this already.”

“Did you see who it was?”

“No.”

“At the scene, you started giving me a description. What was it you said? Strong moral principles and acclimatised to violence?”

“I was wrong,” Sherlock said.

“In what way?”

“Yes, they were acclimatised to violence, but they don’t have moral principles. They shot the guy, they wanted him dead. No morals there. You were right, it was just an enemy.”

“And that’s it? That’s all you can give me on this?”

“Yes.”

Greg sighed. “Okay. Okay, fine. If you’re sure.”

“I’m always sure.”

Greg smiled. “I know that. Is there anything else?”

Sherlock frowned. “He had a sponsor.”

“What?”

“You might as well know. He was paid to kill his victims. By someone called Moriarty.”

“Well, what’s that?” Greg asked.

“I have no idea.”

Greg nodded, frowning. “Alright.”

“Are you sure you have no idea who this Moriarty person is?” John asked. “Maybe. Maybe he’s someone you’ve come across before? On another case or something?”

“No.”

“Me neither,” Greg said. “Look, I’ll do a search in our system, see if it comes up with anything.”

Sherlock stood up. “So I can go.”

Greg sighed. “Yeah, go on then. You do realise you’ve cost me hours in paperwork when I could be out doing something useful.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Come on, John.”

John smiled at Greg before walking out with Sherlock. Greg sat back in his chair as he watched them go. He looked back down at his paperwork. Right. Now how was he going to explain away this one? Just another report he had to somehow explain away Sherlock’s involvement or wipe his name out completely. Just another self-censored report to add to the ever-growing list.

 

* * *

 

_February, 2010_

Greg got into his office to find an email from Mycroft already sat in his inbox.

 

Sender: Holmes, Mycroft  
Subject: John Watson  
Dear Greg,  
I hope you’re well. I wondered if you had seen this? http://www.johnwatsonblog.co.uk/blog/07february  
It appears your name has been blacked out for ‘legal matters’, but I thought it would interest you nonetheless.  
How does dinner tomorrow night suit you?  
Kindest regards,  
Mycroft Holmes

 

Greg grinned as he clicked on the link. He started reading it and brought his coffee to his lips. And then almost spat it back out he read one of John’s paragraphs.

_This morning, for example, he asked me who the Prime Minister was. Last week he seemed to genuinely not know the Earth goes round the Sun. Seriously. He didn't know. He didn't think the Sun went round the Earth or anything. He just didn't care._

He clutched his stomach as he laughed, tears rolling down his cheeks. Sherlock didn’t know the earth went around the sun. Some genius he was.

Sally knocked on his door and walked in. “Everything alright?” she asked.

Greg pointed at his screen and tried to speak through the laughter. “John Watson. Blog and Sherlock doesn’t-” He burst out into hysterical laughter as Sally peered at the screen over his shoulder.

She began to laugh too, clutching Greg’s shoulder as she did so. “Oh God,” she managed to say through the giggles. “Can you send me this link?”

Greg laughed. “Yeah, course,” he said, copying and pasting it into an email. “How does he not know the Prime Minister for God’s sake?” He opened the blog up again and continued reading, with Sally peering over his shoulder.

“I love that John Watson calls him arrogant,” Sally said. “I’m a fan of John Watson.”

Greg nodded. “Yeah, seems an alright bloke, I’ll give him that. I’m the blacked out bits, by the way.”

_We returned to the flat to discover that ▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓ and the police were there, examining the suitcase. It was actually pretty funny seeing how offended Sherlock was by this. I genuinely think he believes himself to be above the law. And he couldn't stand the fact that ▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓ had got one over him._

Greg grinned. “Look at that. John Watson thinks I got one over on him.”

“Well, there’s a first time for everything,” Sally murmured.

“Oi! I get one over on him all the time.”

_▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓ described Sherlock as a child and, in many ways, that's what he is. I said that he doesn't care about what others think and that he's arrogant because of this but it's not really that. It's not that he doesn't care, it's that he genuinely doesn't understand that it's normal to care. It's normal to worry about what other people think. Like a child, he just doesn't understand the rules of society - which, of course, is probably why he's so good at working the rest of us out._

Greg smiled a bit when he read that paragraph. ‘It’s not that he doesn’t care, it’s that he genuinely doesn’t understand that it’s normal to care’. Sherlock had done alright with this John Watson, Greg decided.

Between Greg and Mycroft, they’d dedicated hours and hours to looking out for him, trying to show him that people wanted the best for him. And Sherlock had never understood why. Why would anyone give a toss whether he was alive or dead, high or sober? But with John Watson, perhaps there was a way he’d find out. Realise it was okay to be cared about, and okay to care about others too.

Not that Greg ever expected Sherlock would give a toss if he were alive or not. Although, perhaps he’d miss him a bit, since Greg was the one who kept him fed on cases...

Sally smiled when they got to the bottom of the blog. “Right. Email that link to me.” She left Greg to it.

 

To: Holmes, Mycroft  
Subject: Re: John Watson  
Hi Mycroft,  
Thanks for emailing that link to me. Does he really not know about the earth and the sun? I think you’re right - you are the smart one. I assume you actually do know?  
Dinner tomorrow night is perfect actually. Jane’s going out with some friends for a birthday so that’s perfect timing.  
See you then.  
Cheers,  
Greg

 

Sender: Holmes, Mycroft  
Subject: Re: John Watson  
Dear Greg,  
A car will be round at 7.30pm.  
Of course I know the earth revolves around the sun.  
Kindest regards,  
Mycroft Holmes.

 

Later that evening, Greg sat on the bed while Jane put some jewellery and perfume on. He was mesmerised by it. It all looked so complicated.

“So, who’s birthday is it again?” Greg asked.

“Lorraine from work. You signed the card.”

“Did I?”

“Yes, last week. But you were in the middle of the serial suicide thing, I’m not surprised you’ve forgotten.”

Greg nodded. “Right. Hey, Jane, look at me a sec.” She turned to face him and smiled. “You look beautiful,” he said. “And I just wanted to say I know the past month has been really crazy and busy with the serial suicides but I’ll try to be around a bit more this month.”

She touched his cheek. “It’s okay. I know what I signed up for.” She turned back to the mirror.

Greg checked his watch. “Right. Car’s going to be here in five minutes.” He stood up and kissed the side of Jane’s neck. “Got to admit though, with you looking like that, I could really stay longer.”

She laughed. “Later. Go. Don’t make him wait.”

Greg kissed her cheek and grabbed his coat. The car arrived a minute after he got outside and Greg smiled across at Mycroft. “You alright?”

“Very well, thank you. I’ve chosen an Argentinean restaurant.”

Greg grinned. “Steak. Yes. Brilliant.”

Mycroft chuckled. “I thought you’d approve.”

“I’ve been so busy I don’t feel like I’ve had a proper meal for ages.”

Mycroft studied him. “Is everything alright?”

“Yeah, it’s fine. It’s just busy. We had that suicide killer which took a lot of our time. And then we had a few others Sherlock worked out a few weeks ago that we had to pull together when we had the resources. Then I went to court to give evidence, and had to do even more paperwork. It’s been a long month.”

“I don’t imagine it’s ever truly quiet.”

Greg laughed. “That’s true. Just busier than usual, I guess. Things get backed up during Christmas when court isn’t in session and stuff, so there’s always more to do in January.”

Mycroft nodded. “I understand. We’re here.”

Greg got out of the car and followed Mycroft into the restaurant. He inhaled deeply as soon as the smell of steak reached his nose. “This is amazing.”

They were led to a table by the maitre d who lit a candle for them and handed them each a menu. She explained the different types of steak cuts and the ways they could have them cooked. Mycroft selected a red wine without even looking at the menu.

“Been here before then?” Greg asked.

“I have. But I’ve been looking for a reason to return. The steaks are exquisite. Can I make a recommendation?”

“Please do.”

“Choose the Media Luna de Vacio.”

Greg glanced at the menu. “That’s the most expensive on there.”

“And with good reason. Think of it as a very belated birthday meal if you’d like.”

Greg laughed and closed his menu. “Fine. If that’s what you recommend, that’s what I’ll have.”

“An excellent choice,” Mycroft said.

A waitress brought over their wine. Mycroft tasted it, nodded his approval and she poured them each a glass and took their orders.

“The wine is marginally dryer than we usually have,” Mycroft said. “But I promise, once you have the meat in front of you, you’ll notice the difference.”

“Are you into wine? I know you always choose it, but do you know loads about it?”

“I’ve invested in some fine wines,” Mycroft said. “But I’m not necessarily knowledgeable about them. I have a collection at our family home outside of London.”

Greg smiled. “Sounds like an amazing place.”

“It’s very relaxing. I like London, but it’s nice to get away from it sometimes.”

“I don’t think I’d ever live anywhere but London.”

“Neither do I. But it is nice to get away.”

Greg sniffed his wine and had a sip. “Yeah, it’s a bit different to what you usually pick. It doesn’t go down so easily.”

Mycroft nodded. “You’ll enjoy it with the meat. How is Doctor Watson settling in?”

“Haven’t seen much of him if I’m honest. Only during the case and then when he and Sherlock came round to my office the next day. He seems like a good balancer for Sherlock.”

“I think he’ll only encourage Sherlock to become even more… Sherlock.”

Greg laughed. “There’s a scary thought. Maybe you’re right. I don’t know, I haven’t seen enough of him. But I enjoyed his blog.”

“Yes, I thought you might.”

“He seems to understand Sherlock though. He sees the things about him that only you and I see. He seems to understand why I bother, which is more than my team do.”

Mycroft smiled. “I’m glad to hear it.”

“It’s early days.”

“Yes. I’m making a concerted effort to stay out of Sherlock’s way for the next month or so.”

“Why’s that?”

“There’s something about Doctor Watson which makes me feel Sherlock is ready to take care of himself without my interfering. I thought I’d give them some time to consolidate their association with one another.”

Greg smiled. “Maybe I’ll do the same. Leave Sherlock to bother another policeman for a change. Oh. That reminds me.”

“What’s that?”

Greg sighed. “I don’t know if this means anything to you or not. But apparently the suicide killer bloke, he was sponsored to do the killings.”

Mycroft frowned. “Sponsored?”

“By someone called Moriarty. Sherlock doesn’t know what it means, and I looked it up on the police database and nothing came up there either.”

Mycroft’s expression returned to neutral as he sipped his wine. He pressed his lips together. “Moriarty,” he murmured. “I can’t recall anyone by that name. Although…” he trailed off, looking down into his wine glass.

“Mycroft?” Greg asked. “What’s going on?”

“A small thought, that’s all. One I’m not ready to share.”

Greg nodded. “Okay. But if it’s something I need to know...”

“I promise.”

The waitress brought their meals over. Greg leaned down and smelt his steak. “Oh God. I’m in food heaven. Let me eat this and then kill me so this is the last thing I ever taste.”

Mycroft chuckled. “And what would be your preferred death?”

“I don’t know. Smother me with a steak or something.”

Mycroft laughed. Greg cut a piece of his meat and put it in his mouth. It practically melted. He groaned and closed his eyes. “That’s it. If I was on Death Row, I would demand this was my last meal.”

Mycroft smiled and began to eat as well.

“What would you choose?” Greg asked.

“What a difficult question. Perhaps the same.”

“With a good glass of wine?”

“Naturally.”

“So, come on,” Greg said. “Out with it. Are you going to fill me in on John Watson yet or not?”

Mycroft sighed. “Very well. I believe he is the man who turned a gun on your serial killer.”

Greg stared at him. “You what?”

“I have taken all the necessary steps to ensure the gun he carries is both legal and registered.”

“Wait, hang on. _John_ killed my serial killer?” Greg whispered.

“Yes. He had powder marks on his fingers that night. All rather obvious.”

Greg shook his head. “Bloody hell, Mycroft. What the hell am I supposed to do with that information?”

“Nothing at all. It has all been dealt with. Who pays any mind to the death of a serial killer, Greg? It’s one less person to go through the courts, one less person taking a space in jail. And I believe Doctor Watson was saving Sherlock’s life.”

Greg sighed and tucked into his food. He didn’t know what Mycroft felt about it, but Greg didn’t take the death of another human being so lightly. He was a copper for God’s sake, it was his job to send killers to jail, not allow their murders.

“Greg?” Mycroft murmured. “You do not need to struggle with this.”

“Yes, I do,” Greg said. “I don’t know why you’re so fine with it. I don’t know how any of you are fine with it.”

“It’s never ‘fine’. Sometimes you tolerate it.”

Greg snorted and shook his head. “What? And believe it’s part of some kind of greater good?”

“Perhaps. I don’t believe in-”

“-No, neither do I. I don’t know, Mycroft. I’ve seen you downright depressed because a load of people got killed and you felt partially responsible. I don’t know why you’re okay with it this time.”

“He was a serial killer,” Mycroft pointed out. “Is his life worth the same as those he killed? Sherlock was in danger.”

“Sherlock was in danger because he’s an idiot who was willing to take a poisoned pill.”

Mycroft leaned back in his seat. “Would you feel differently if the man had a gun pointed to Sherlock’s head?”

Greg bit his lip. “I dunno. Maybe. What, are we having a moral debate here?”

“Yes, I suppose we are.”

Greg chewed his meat thoughtfully. “Where’d you draw the line? I’m not sure. I’ve never shot to kill.”

“But you’ve shot?”

“I had training. I was a young officer in the 80s. That was when they started revoking a load of licenses. I never got one.”

Mycroft nodded. “Yes, there were a number of deaths in that period.”

“Yeah. So I had the training but that was around the time everything was stopping. Unusual now of course to carry a gun. I think last I heard it was between six and eight per cent of officers are trained in firearms. All forces have access to tasers now. But again, you’ve got to be trained in them.”

“Would you carry a gun? If it were decided that all capable and trained Detective Inspectors could carry if required, would you do it?”

“Not lightly. I’d trust myself to carry. But I’d really have to consider it, because you kill someone and you’re living with that forever. I mean, come on. I still think about the people who got killed by serial killers I didn’t catch fast enough.”

“A ridiculous thing to worry about, if you don’t mind my saying.”

Greg snorted. “I mind a bit, but I won’t pull you up on it. You ever shot a gun?”

“Yes.”

“In an actual situation?”

“Yes.”

Greg looked at him. “Shot to kill?”

“I have.”

“How’d you live with it?”

“It was me or him. I chose myself.”

“Do you think about it?”

“No.”

Greg nodded. “Maybe that’s the difference. I can’t switch off like that.”

“You care too much.”

Greg frowned. “Is that so bad?”

“It can be a distinct disadvantage to be so emotional.”

“I’m not emotional. I just care about people’s lives. I think you do too, actually. I think you act like you don’t, but I’ve seen you affected by it. Maybe for not as long as the average person. Maybe you detach yourself quicker than I do, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t bother you.”

“Are you better or worse at your job because you care so much?”

“Better. I give a damn. I want to go out and solve the crime, because that person who was murdered deserved better than that.”

“And when you have nightmares? What then?”

Greg shrugged. “I’m used to it.”

“But if you were cold and detached then perhaps you could go home with a clear conscience and sleep at night.”

“Do you sleep at night? Always?”

Mycroft pressed his lips together.

“See?” Greg said. “Doesn’t matter what way you cope with it, if you care even a little bit then sometimes you can’t sleep at night. No one’s life is worth so little that you can point a gun at them and blow their brains out and say ‘ah well, had it coming’. Maybe Sherlock could. I don’t think you can.”

“What makes you think I am any different to my brother?”

“Are you serious?” Greg asked. “C’mon. I know you. Things affect you. About 99 per cent of people you know probably don’t even realise it. You know, actually, I reckon both you and Sherlock care. And I think it drives you both crazy that there isn’t an off-switch. That maybe you can turn it down, and you can turn it down for years, but it’s never off permanently.”

“And you wouldn’t choose to live like that?”

“No. Even when I don’t sleep at night. Even when I have nightmares until I’m so tired I just can’t have them anymore. I wouldn’t change it.”

“And when people hurt you. When Caroline cheated on you, for instance. Did you never wish that you could stop caring and make it stop?”

Greg nodded. “Yeah, I wished it. But if a genie came up to me and said, ‘hey, Greg. I can make all that pain go away’, would I do it? Nah. Not for any money. You’re a head person. You think things through, analyse every possibility. Me? I act first, think about it about half-way through. And by then it’s generally too late anyway.”

“And yet you protect yourself by not talking about your feelings. You don’t share the stories of your life with people.”

“No, that’s wrong. I don’t share my life stories with just anyone. But sometimes you have to just let it go and talk about it.”

“And you found that? With Jane?”

Greg bit his lip and drank his wine. “We’ve been married a couple of years. Ask me in 10 and then we’ll see.”

Mycroft raised his eyebrows but said nothing as he finished his meal. “And what of John?”

Greg shrugged. “Don’t have a choice, do I?”

“Why not?”

“I want what’s best for Sherlock. And if that bloke had a gun pointed to his head then… then yeah. I’d live with it fairly easily. Is the pill really so different? With Sherlock’s brain and his need to prove he’s right all the time, then yeah. I guess it’s just like he had a gun to his head. But I don’t like it.”

“I imagine the pair of them will cause you a significant amount of trouble, but I suspect you will welcome it all the same.”

“Yeah, I bet I will,” Greg said. “As long as you’re around, alright? Keep an eye on us all in the background.”

“I give my word.”

Greg nodded. “I kind of like it. Knowing you’re there checking everything’s okay.” He looked up into those grey eyes. “I feel like we’re going to need it.”

“Yes, I imagine so.”

Greg laughed and finished his food. “Damn. I just realised I meant to bring your books round. I finished the last one last night. I know I’ve had them about a year, but I hardly get the time to read them, and then when I do have the time, I’m exhausted.”

“It’s fine, no problem at all. I’ll find some others for you to enjoy.”

Greg smiled. “Thanks.”

“How is Jane?”

“She’s good thanks,” Greg said. “She’s really good. She’s the new year three coordinator, so she’s got a bit of a payrise and extra responsibilities. She seems to really enjoy it.”

Mycroft nodded. “And no plans for children of your own?”

“No. None at all.”

“I wondered that when you found out about your birth parents you may have changed your mind. I always felt that was what was holding you back.”

“No, it doesn’t make any difference. I haven’t really looked at the files either to be honest.”

“They are always there if you want them.”

“Exactly,” Greg agreed. “And I’m really grateful for all the trouble you went to.”

“It was no trouble. If you ever need a favour from me, you know I am only a phone call away. Unless I’m overseas in an important meeting, but I do listen to my voicemail.”

Greg laughed. “Handy to know.”

Mycroft smiled across at him. “Keep me informed, Greg. I don’t mean for you to spy on Sherlock, but without resorting to more clandestine measures, I fear you are the only contact I have.”

“I’ll share what I think you need to know. I guess it’s alright. Because Sherlock knows I talk to you.”

Mycroft nodded. “Indeed, and he trusts you regardless.”

“Means a lot to you, doesn’t it?” Greg said. “Trusting people.”

“Yes. I know so many people who spy on others for money.”

Greg laughed. “So as long as I’m spying but with no cash, it’s alright?”

“It’s hardly spying. But we can certainly take better care of one another if we know the ins and outs of what’s going on.”

Greg glanced at him. Take care of one another? Is that what they were doing? Caring? The waitress walked over and asked if they would like anything else. Mycroft asked for the bill.

Greg smiled across at him. “I’ll buy our next meal,” he said.

“Of course. I always enjoy our conversations. I have to return to work afterwards. I have a flight scheduled for a meeting in Russia.”

Greg pulled a face. “Lucky you.”

“Yes. Quite. I’ll be back later this month.” Mycroft handed over some cash to the waitress and they both stood to leave. They pulled their coats on and Mycroft picked his umbrella up. “I feel rather too well fed.”

Greg laughed. “Me too.” He followed Mycroft out, and inwardly chastised himself for the sneaking glance at his arse. “That was amazing. Can we go there again another time?”

Mycroft chuckled as they got into the car. “Of course.”

Greg smiled at him. A concerned thought crossed his mind for a brief moment. This is what friends did, wasn’t it? Go for meals? He frowned a bit to himself. Of course it was.

“Is something bothering you, Greg?” Mycroft asked.

“No. No, it’s fine. Thanks though.”

“The final contract from the negotiation made on my birthday was completed yesterday. I wanted to thank you for your involvement.”

Greg snorted. “Was that the woman who thought we were married?”

“Yes. I hate to correct her. She has a romantic streak it’s vital to appeal to. She thought I was married to Anthea until I revealed my sexuality to her.”

Greg grinned. “You should take me to more negotiations if they go that well when I’m there.”

“Yes, perhaps I should.”

Greg laughed. “Or maybe not. I think I’d destroy half the world if I spent 10 minutes in your seat.”

“Not half as quickly as Sherlock would destroy it,” Mycroft smiled. “Which is, of course, the more alarming thought.”

They smiled over at each other before the car pulled to a halt. “Cheers for dinner,” Greg said. “Let me know when you’re free to do this again.”

“Greg?”

“Yeah?”

“I hope you’re aware you paved the way for Doctor Watson. Sherlock would never have found any space in his life for him without you.”

Greg stared at him. “Really?”

“Yes. Definitely.”

Greg felt his face warm. “Thank you. It’s quite nice actually. Thinking he’s responsible for himself now.”

“Well, that is another alarming thought,” Mycroft said, but his tone was playful. “Goodnight, Greg.”

Greg flashed him a big smile. “Night.” He got out of the car and walked up to his flat. Jane still wasn’t back from her dinner so Greg watched Have I Got News For You and Mock The Week before falling asleep.

 

* * *

 

A few weeks later, Sherlock was skulking around Scotland Yard. Greg had been out at a crime scene and found him sat in his office when he returned, John Watson in another seat.

“What?” Greg asked Sherlock before looking at John. “Hi, mate,” he added.

“Hello,” John said. “Everything okay?”

“Just a pretty nasty domestic dispute this morning. What can I get for you both?”

Sherlock handed him a piece of paper. “Alibi for the Tooting Killer.”

Greg looked at it. “We’ve already let him go.”

“What?”

“We got the actual killer, it’s all sorted.”

Sherlock stared at him. “You have just wasted my entire afternoon.”

“Sorry, Sherlock, but I didn’t even know you were working on this. If you want me to know what you’re doing, you do actually have to tell me. I’m not a mind-reader.”

Sherlock glared at him and stood up, storming through the door. John snorted with laughter.

“John. Got a sec?” Greg asked, as John stood up.

“Yeah. What can I do for you?”

“Nothing much, just a bit of a request really. I’ve known Sherlock a long time. Sometimes you need to search his room.”

John looked at him. “Why?” Greg raised his eyebrows. “Drugs,” John said, realising.

“Yeah. Look, he’ll know you’ve done it, of course he will. He’s not stupid.” Greg laughed. “Understatement, that. But I think deep down he wants to be clean or he wouldn’t bother trying to stop. He won’t say anything about you hunting for drugs, he’ll let you get on with it.”

“How many times have you seen him high?” John asked.

“Too many, mate. Please, can you just do me this one favour?”

“I won’t spy on him for you. But I will keep an eye on him.”

“Thank you. Owe you one, John.”

John smiled at him and walked out.

 

* * *

 

Mycroft had two books delivered to the Yard. For a change, they were not some sort of Gothic horror. The handwritten note simply said: _Give some science-fiction a chance. Kindest regards, Mycroft Holmes._

 

* * *

 

_March, 2010_

PC Sam Brockhurst was nothing if not true to his word. Here it was. Friday night, the start of three days off and he had invited as many people as could come around to his for beers and pizza.

Greg leaned against the kitchen counter, looking around. The room was decked out in black, except for the red tiles above the oven. And the red kettle. And the red microwave. And the green mould sitting in that mug. The place screamed bachelor pad. Greg was almost a bit jealous he hadn’t lived in a place like this once upon a time. “So. Brockhurst. You actually live here?”

“I do. I’ve got my kitchen.” He opened the fridge. “Full of beer. I’ve got my freezer. Full of pizza. And a gigantic TV.”

Greg laughed and took the beer Sam offered him. “It’s… very ‘you’.”

Sam grinned and led him through to the living room. “Cheers. It was already furnished when I found it. It was like it was meant to be.” He sat down on the beanbag and looked at his watch. “Lestrade. Before everyone else gets here, I have a question.”

“What?”

“What do I need to do to be a better police officer?”

Greg looked at him. “This is a weird conversation to have over beer.”

“No, come on. Man to man and boss to… well, me. I mean, you’ve done this a long time right?”

“Are you calling me old?”

“Yeah, a bit,” Sam said. “Unintentionally. But come on. What do I need to do to get a rank?”

Greg took a long sip of his beer as he thought about it. “Why do you want to rise in the ranks?”

“More responsibility. Different jobs, less menial tasks. More money.”

Greg laughed. “Yeah, the money helps.”

“I don’t know,” Sam said. “Everyone wants to progress in their career. How far do you see me going?”

“It depends what you’re willing to put into it,” Greg said. “How far do you want to go?”

“Up to DI. Maybe. But the paperwork you have to do would kill me.”

“It kills me too sometimes.”

Sam frowned and sipped his beer. “I know why I won’t get promoted.”

“Why?”

“Not because the positions won’t be available. And not because I wouldn’t be willing to move somewhere. But… c’mon. You and Donovan are practically workaholics. You’re both first in, last to leave. And I’m last in and first to leave. It’s my job. And you both… you live and breath and die it.”

Greg nodded. “Some would say your way is better.”

“But I’ll never get to DI.”

“Maybe not,” Greg admitted. “Maybe that’s better. Meet a nice woman, settle down and have some kids.”

“Why did you become a policeman?”

“I didn’t know what else to do,” Greg said. “Saw an advert and went for it.”

“I liked the American police dramas,” Sam said. They both laughed. “I have another question.”

Greg snorted. “Who are you tonight? Jeremy Paxman?”

Sam grinned. “I’d make a great Paxman. Alright. My question. You’re a really moral bloke. Like, down to the core, got it all sussed and sorted. Why Sherlock Holmes?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, it’s illegal, isn’t it? What you’re doing.”

Greg stared across at him. “Why are you asking?”

“Curious. I mean, I’ve been around him from a couple of months after you met him. And I don’t know him as well as you do or like him much, but I don’t dislike him as much as Sally does either. Yeah, he calls me out on my sleeping around but I’m not embarrassed easy.”

Greg laughed. “I know that, mate.”

“When I first joined the Met, and it wasn’t that long ago, I admit that. But the first time we met I totally buggered up, d’you remember? Totally broke all the procedures in talking to that witness.”

“I remember.”

“And you had a proper go at me. And you told me all the reasons I’d screwed up and how it mucked up the system and threatened the case and the prosecution and the conviction.”

“Yeah.”

“And I thought, this bloke. He’s principled. Down the line. Black and white, no middle ground. And I knew where I stood with you. If I worked hard, stuck to the rules, you’d work with me and back me up if I was in a corner. And you’ve done that before. You backed me up when I got in trouble with that bloke in Carter’s team.”

Greg nodded. “Mmm.”

“And then there was Sherlock Holmes. And I never got it.”

“I’ve not ever analysed it. I don’t try to over-analyse my life.”

“What did he do that was so special?”

“He’s just Sherlock. You’ve seen what he does.”

“Yeah, he’s brilliant,” Sam said. “Sociopathic psycho, whatever he calls himself. But what was it about him that made you think he was worth the risks you’re taking?”

Greg pressed his lips together, thinking. He didn’t belong. He needed someone to give him a smack round the head when he was being an idiot, which was 90 per cent of the time in those days. He had a good brain. He was useful. He was intriguing. He was an excellent distraction from Greg’s failing marriage. There were more reasons besides. But Greg just said “I don’t know.”

“Donovan reckons he’s capable of killing.”

Greg shrugged. “Maybe.”

Sam frowned at him. “You think so too?”

“I think he’s capable of it, maybe. If he’s as detached from people as he makes out and I’m not so sure he is. But if he logic-ed himself into it, then yeah, I reckon he could kill.”

“And you’re okay with hanging around with him, knowing that?” Sam asked.

“If I spent my whole life deciding not to hang around with certain people because I knew exactly what they were capable of, I wouldn’t hang around with anyone at all.”

Sam looked thoughtful. There was a knock on the door and he got up to answer it. Sally and Piper had arrived together and both handed Sam a crate of beer. “You are my actual heroes,” Sam grinned as he carried them to the fridge.

Greg looked up at them and held his bottle up. “Alright.”

“Exhausted,” Sally said, taking a bottle from Sam and taking a seat on the sofa beside Greg. “Victoria Line’s down. We had to find another way.”

Piper sat down on the floor and accepted the coke Sam offered her. They talked about policing for a while. The things which had changed in the last couple of months. They discussed the upcoming General Election.

Sam ranted about how every politician said ‘more cops on the street’ then gave them more paperwork or cut their funding. Greg said he might not vote, and then Piper went on a long rant about how he had to.

Sam, Piper and Greg talked about football while Sally rolled her eyes. After four beers, Greg decided it was time for his bed. Despite the protests from the others and a murmuring of ‘grandad’, he left them to it and took the tube back.

Jane was just returning from an evening spent with her sister when Greg got back. They spent a few moments kissing before Jane turned the kettle on and made them both a hot chocolate. They sat in bed, Jane reading the news on Greg’s laptop while he read Isaac Asimov’s I, Robot.

“You could just watch the movie,” Jane murmured. “It’s got Will Smith in it.”

Greg laughed. “But unlike the film, I can just pick this up and put it down again.”

“But it has Will Smith in it,” Jane protested.

“I get it. You like Will Smith.”

“Don’t you?” she asked.

Greg shrugged. “Never thought about him in that way.”

“What about…” She wrinkled her nose. “Brad Pitt?”

“No.”

“Me neither. Clooney?”

“No.”

“Are you sure you’re attracted to men?”

Greg laughed. “Some men, yeah.”

“But not George Clooney?”

“No.”

“What about… oh! That guy from the X Men films?”

“Who?”

Jane started tapping away on the laptop. “Hugh Jackman.”

Greg laughed. “Yeah, he’s… attractive.”

“Yeah, he is.” She closed the lid. “How many men have you slept with?”

Greg glanced at her. “Are you sure you want to know?”

“Yeah.”

“Seven, maybe, if I remember it all rightly. Couple of one night stands, a few that lasted more than that.”

She lay down on her side, looking up at him. “Is it better? With a man?”

“Is what better?”

“Sex? Do they… know what they’re doing more?”

“Jane, no.”

“Really?”

“It’s just different.”

“How?”

Greg sighed. “Why do you need to know this?”

“I’m curious. You were with a woman, then you were with a man, then you were with me. Was it weird? Switching?”

“No, it wasn’t. It was normal and natural every time. It’s just about being with someone, it’s not about comparing.”

She paused, looking thoughtful. Greg was just about to tell her not to worry, when she spoke. “How do you deal with both giving each other stubble rash?”

And Greg laughed, drawing her close and kissing her head. “Y’just shave, love.”

“Do you have any photos of him?” she asked.

“Of who?”

“Mycroft Holmes.”

“I don’t.”

Jane sighed and nuzzled his chest. “I tried Googling him. But nothing came up. It’s like he’s not even a person. I mean, who doesn’t have Facebook nowadays? Well, except you, obviously. You don’t have Facebook. Sally has Facebook.”

Greg laughed. “I know she does.”

“Is he like Sherlock? All cheekbones and quirky mouth?”

Greg looked down at her. “You think Sherlock’s attractive?”

“Oh, if I were a bit younger, honey. Yeah, I would. Is Mycroft like that? An older version?”

“Nah, not really.”

“Tell me.”

Greg sighed. “Jane…”

“No, come on. He was the love of your life-”

“-No, he wasn’t.”

She rolled her eyes at him. “He was someone you cared about.”

“Alright. If I tell you everything you want to know, will you drop it?”

“Course.”

“No, he’s nothing like Sherlock. He’s got grey-blue eyes. Dark hair too, but it’s a bit lighter. Not curly. Long nose, and thin lips. He’s quite… he’s intimidating, sometimes. When he glares or just looks at you like he’s seeing right into your head.”

“Sounds… charming. Or not.”

Greg shrugged. “He smiles.”

“Everyone smiles, Greg.”

“Yeah, but, he doesn’t enough. And then he does. When he properly smiles, he looks a bit like he forgot his face could do it.” Greg smiled a bit. “So, he’s not like Sherlock in the big attraction stakes, but. Yeah.”

Jane nodded. “He smiles,” she said. “And… and it turns your knees to jelly?”

Greg laughed. “I dunno about jelly.” He frowned. “And turned. Y’know, it doesn’t now, I mean-”

“My knees go like jelly when you smile. It’s lovely, you know that?”

“Cheers.”

Jane curled into his chest. “I’m done talking about Mycroft now. Can you read your book to me?”

Greg nodded and took hold of it. He started on the page he was last on until Jane began to drift off to sleep and rolled onto her pillow. Greg turned the light off, kissed her cheek, and joined her. 


	44. I Can't Fight Them All

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Usual thank yous etc apply. I was desperate to get this up before I left for work this morning, and I have two minutes before I have to get up and get dressed! Enjoy!

_March, 2010_

Greg had been expecting to go home for the day when his phone rang. The sight of Mycroft’s name on his screen made him smile as he answered it almost immediately. “Lestrade.”

“Greg. There’s been an explosion at Baker Street.”

Greg stood up, walking around his desk. “What? I haven’t heard of a-” From the offices, two or three phones started ringing. “Alright, fair enough.” And then he realised what Mycroft had said. “Shit! Is Sherlock alright?”

“Sherlock is alive and well. But I do have a team on its way to investigate. Would you please oversee your policemen and ensure it all goes smoothly? I know relations between the Metropolitan Police and MI5 are not always cordial.”

“Yeah, I’ll head there now. Are you going?”

“Yes.”

Sally appeared at Greg’s door and he nodded to her as he grabbed his badge and his coat. “I’m on my way now.”

“I have added you to the official emergency liaison list.”

“What’s that?” Greg asked as he followed Sally out. Other officers were rapidly getting ready to leave and head to the scene.

“Myself, you and an MI5 explosives expert.”

“You think it’s a bomb?” Greg asked him.

“After last time, I am taking no chances.”

“Yeah. Yeah, got that one right. I’m getting in the car, I’ll see you as soon as I can.”

“Thank you.” Mycroft hung up and Greg got behind the wheel.

“What’s going on?” Sally asked.

“I’m leading this from our end. We’re working with MI5 on it.”

“MI5?” Sally asked. “We don’t even know if it’s a bomb.”

“No. But this is Baker Street.”

“Holmes,” Sally murmured, realising. “Alright.”

Greg raced to Baker Street. If it were a bomber, they couldn’t have arranged it for a worse time from the police’s point of view. Trying to steer their way around London traffic was a nightmare at the best of times. It was appalling at this time of night.

The sound of sirens filled the air. Many uniformed police officers who had been nearer the scene were already in the streets, keeping people back and keeping watch as the firefighters did their jobs.

Greg pulled the car up and he and Sally marched out. Greg flashed his badge to one young-looking officer. “Keep those people back!” Greg yelled at him as he walked closer to the building. He glanced over at Sherlock’s flat - the windows were blown out - but Mycroft had assured him he was fine. It wasn’t Greg’s concern right now.

The explosion had taken out two storeys of a building and the firefighters were battling to keep the blaze a bay. Mycroft was stood beside a row of policemen who were keeping a few people away from the street. Greg walked over to him. “How many casualties?”

“None, remarkably.”

Greg looked at the building. “Really?”

“Yes, really. It won’t be for another couple of hours until we will be able to assess the property. We’re not ruling out terrorist involvement, although there was no hint of an attack on any part of London this particular evening.”

“Just this one evening with no attack?” Greg snorted. “Comforting, Mycroft.”

Sally walked over to them. She eyed Mycroft with a mix of caution and perhaps an ounce of respect. “BBC has a camera here already,” she said. “ITV and Sky will be on their way. Someone has to give a statement.”

“Call our press office,” Greg said. “Been an explosion at approximately…” He checked his watch. “7.02pm, but that’s not precise.”

“6.58pm precisely,” Mycroft murmured. “The cause of the explosion will be investigated. There are no casualties.”

Sally stared at him. “None?”

“No,” Mycroft said.

“Are you sure? I don’t want to give anyone the wrong information on people’s lives.”

“Very well, Sergeant Donovan. At the present time, the number of casualties are unclear, but all reports from fire crews and police indicate the building was empty at the time of the blast.”

Sally snorted. “You a PR guru now?”

Mycroft raised his eyebrows and turned back to the building. “Simply relaying the facts, Sergeant.”

She glanced at Greg and he nodded at her. She took her phone out as she began to walk away from them.

Greg looked around. “Right. We’ve got officers surrounding the scene, keeping people back.”

“Evacuations of the surrounding buildings has already gone ahead,” Mycroft informed him. “I saw some of your officers taking statements.”

“Do you usually come to this sort of thing?”

“No. It’s purely because of Sherl-” Mycroft hissed and touched his mouth.

Greg looked at him. “What’s up?”

“Tooth ache.”

Greg pulled a face. “Ouch. Alright, Mycroft, I need to go see what I can do to help.”

Mycroft nodded. “I’ll be in the area.”

Greg walked away from him. The fire seemed to be getting under control. He spent some time talking to people. He answered a couple of journalists’ questions. The scene was mostly calm, bar the sounds of sirens and hose reels. Ambulances were present, but paramedics were stood watching. They had to give one man some stitches in his arm after his window exploded. Thankfully, that seemed the worst of it.

It was some three hours before the building was deemed safe enough to enter. Mycroft had left and returned again in that time. A fire investigator was stood talking to Mycroft near the building. Greg wandered over to them. “What’s going on?”

“A minor dispute over whose investigation it is,” Mycroft informed him. “One of our experts is already inside.”

Greg glanced up at the building as someone walked out, carrying a metal box in their gloved hands. He and Mycroft exchanged a look and walked over to him. “Found this inside,” the expert said. He opened the lid. Greg peered inside it. Inside was a white envelope, and written on it was Sherlock Holmes.

Greg glanced at Mycroft. His lips were pressed together. “Very well,” Mycroft murmured. “What is your assessment?”

“Made to look like a gas leak,” the expert said. “It’s not.”

Mycroft nodded. “I will leave this in your capable hands, Detective Inspector.”

“My hands? Have you seen what that says?”

“I can read, Inspector. It’s addressed to Sherlock. I’m sure he can shed some light on the matter.” He began to walk away.

“Aren’t you even curious?” Greg called after him.

“Not as curious as Sherlock will be,” Mycroft replied as he opened the car door.

“Oi! Mycroft!”

“What?”

“Go to a dentist.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “I will once this is all wrapped up.”

“Mycroft. Go to a dentist. There’s no point being in pain for longer than necessary.”

“In a few days I’ll-”

“Mycroft!”

Mycroft shook his head. “Fine. Fine, I’ll book an appointment.”

Greg grinned. “Good man. I’ll talk to you in a few days for something or other. Look after yourself.”

“I will. And Greg?”

“Yeah?”

“Keep an eye on Sherlock?”

“Always do.”

Mycroft nodded to him and got into the car. Greg watched it drive away. He stayed at the scene for the next two hours and instructed the explosives expert to have the box and envelope tested and then sent to the Yard.

Jane was drinking a glass of wine when Greg got back in. She looked at him. “Were you at Baker Street?”

“Yeah. See the news?”

“Yep. You want some wine?”

Greg shook his head. “No. I’m going to go straight to bed, I need to be in early in the morning.” He walked over and kissed her head.

“Do you want to get in and I’ll bring you a hot drink?” Jane asked.

“No. Thanks, love.”

“I’ll join you when my programme’s done.”

Greg nodded and walked into his bedroom. He stripped off his clothes and crawled under the covers. He closed his eyes and sighed. He was too tense and awake to sleep, but it was 11.21pm and he wanted to be out by 6am so he could get a start on his work.

He had fallen asleep by the time Jane joined him and he kissed her lazily before drifting off again.

 

* * *

 

Sally arrived half an hour after Greg did. She’s brought in a box of iced buns, which they shared while going over some of the notes from the scene.

“Most of the information won’t come in until this afternoon,” she said, pouring them each a coffee.

“I know, but the media’s going to need some new up-to-date stuff to go on this morning’s news,” Greg reminded her.

“Not our job.”

“No, but we’ve got to give it the press officers at least.” Greg sipped his coffee. “Oh. I need to tell you. They found a metal box at the scene. It had an envelope in it with Sherlock’s name on it.”

She stared at him. “The freak’s involved?”

“I don’t know. It’s a bit weird.”

“A bit weird?” Sally repeated. “Understatement, Lestrade.”

“We’re having it brought here, so I’ll get him on it later.”

She nodded. “Fine. If you’re sure that’s for the best.”

“I am.”

Sally frowned at him, but didn’t say anything.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock and John arrived at 10.14am, and Greg talked them through the strong box and the envelope.

And that was when Sherlock picked out the pink phone. The sound of the Greenwich pips echoed through the silence. And then Sherlock received a message.

Greg looked over Sherlock’s shoulder at the picture of a room with a fireplace on one wall. “What the hell are we supposed to make of that?” Greg asked. “An estate agent’s photo and the bloody Greenwich pips.”

“It’s a warning,” Sherlock said.

“A warning?” John asked.

“Some secret societies used to send dried melon seeds, orange pips, things like that. Five pips. They’re warning us it’s going to happen again. And I’ve seen this place before.”

Sherlock turned and began to walk out of the office. John left to follow him. “Hang on. What’s gonna happen again?”

“Boom!” Sherlock said.

Greg grabbed his coat and followed them out. Sherlock seemed to possess remarkable abilities at hailing taxis on cue, and they all got in. “So, where exactly are we going?” Greg asked.

“Baker Street,” Sherlock replied.

Greg frowned and exchanged a look with John. John shrugged. Like Greg, he’d already learnt to just accept things where Sherlock was concerned. He was a fast learner.

“So, Sherlock, where did you stay last night?”

“What?”

“With the bomb blast and stuff. Did you stay somewhere else?”

“No, I stayed in Baker Street.”

“Bit chilly, wasn’t it?” Greg asked.

“Shut up, Lestrade,” Sherlock said.

Greg frowned and tapped his fingers against his leg. “John. So, you’ve got a new job? How’s that going?”

John nodded. “It’s a bit of money. It’s not very exciting, but it’s a good solid job. Assuming I don’t get fired within a month for hanging around with him.” John nodded his head towards Sherlock.

Greg grinned and nodded. “Yeah, I think we’re both nutters.”

“You’re madder than me, I’ve only known him a few months.”

Greg laughed. “Yeah, it’s amazing I haven’t killed him already.”

“Inspector, I am far more likely to kill you than you are to kill me,” Sherlock said. “And if you don’t both shut up, I fear the day of reckoning will be closer still.”

From the backseat, Greg saw the taxi driver’s alarmed look. Greg and John exchanged a grin. “It’s alright,” Greg said. “I’m a policeman.”

“Not sayin’ a word,” the driver said. “Jus’ get out of my car safe ‘n’ sound and give me my money an’ we’re all good.”

“John,” Sherlock said as he opened the door. “Pay the man.”

John rolled his eyes and passed some cash forward. Greg and John both followed Sherlock into 221 Baker Street.

Mrs Hudson led them into the basement flat. The room was the same as the one in the picture sent to the pink phone. Except for the pair of trainers in the centre of the room. They all stared at them.

“Shoes,” John said. Greg snorted. Bleeding obvious, that was. Sherlock began to walk towards them, but John held his hand out to stop him. “He’s a bomber, remember.”

Sherlock stopped for moment, but then continued to walk towards them, crouching down beside them. Greg watched him with some apprehension. Suddenly a phone began to ring. Sherlock answered it. “Hello?”

“H-hello… sexy,” came a woman’s voice. Greg frowned.

“Who’s this?” Sherlock asked.

“I’ve… sent you… a little puzzle… just to say hi.”

“Who’s talking? Why are you crying?”

“I-I’m not… crying… I’m typing… and this… stupid… bitch… is reading it out.”

“And the curtain rises,” Sherlock said, looking around at them. “I’ve been expecting this for some time.”

The woman spoke again. “Twelve hours to solve… my puzzle, Sherlock… or I’m going… to be… so naughty.”

The voice stopped. They all stared at the phone in Sherlock’s hand. “Well. What was that?” Greg asked.

“A hostage,” Sherlock said. “And it’s something to do with these trainers. I’m taking them to Bart’s.”

Greg frowned. “They’re evidence. I should take them in.”

Sherlock stared at him. “The message was meant for me. The phone was for me. This is mine.”

They stared at each other challengingly for a few moments. “Alright,” Greg finally said. “I’ll go back to the Yard see if we’ve got any experts who can trace the call or something like that. You got the phone number for it?”

Sherlock nodded. “What’s yours?”

Greg told him his mobile number and Sherlock used the pink phone to dial it. “Cheers,” Greg said. “I’ll see what we can get.”

“The trainers are the key,” Sherlock said.

Greg nodded. “Sure. Keep me informed, yeah? And Sherlock?”

“What?”

“What do you mean you’ve been expecting this for a long time?”

Sherlock stared at him. “There are no coincidences, Lestrade. You’ve been around the past five years, you know what we’ve dealt with. Bombs. Explosions. This wasn’t the first.”

Greg nodded. “Yeah.” They nodded at each other and Greg took his phone out of his pocket and opened his messages.

John looked between them. “What are you both going on about?”

“Don’t tell Mycroft,” Sherlock said. “Not yet.”

Greg looked up from his phone. “What makes you think I was going to tell him anything?”

“You always do. Don’t.”

“Fine. But if he asks, I’m telling him,” Greg said. “If he doesn’t already know.”

“I know,” Sherlock said. “But this isn’t his puzzle, not yet.”

“What are you two going on about?” John repeated.

“I’ll let Sherlock fill you in,” Greg said, turning and walking out of the flat. He called for a taxi and went back to the Yard. He text Jane on the way.

 

MESSAGES  
11.14am: Got a big case on.  
Not sure where it’s going yet.  
Expect me to be late tonight. X

 

Greg went back to the Yard and walked over to Sally’s desk. She looked up at him. “Got a minute?” he asked her. She stood up and followed him through to his office.

Greg bit his lip. “We’ve got a hostage situation somewhere.”

“What?”

“I dunno. Sherlock seems to have a grip on the situation for now but-”

“-Hang on, Lestrade. There’s a hostage and Sherlock is dealing with it?”

Greg pressed his lips together. “Alright, good point.”

Sally shook her head at him. “Why didn’t you think that already for God’s sake? You know what, forget it. Hostage. That’s the important thing.”

Greg nodded. “Who do we need to talk to about the phone? I’ve got the number for it, we should be able to trace calls to it, right?”

Sally pulled a face. “I doubt it. You need proper people to sign off on that and to get someone to do that, you have to tell them about Sherlock.”

“Bugger, yeah.”

“What about that other Holmes bloke?”

Greg shook his head. “Not yet.”

“What d’you mean not yet?”

“We’ll give Sherlock some time.”

“And in the meantime?” They stared across at each other. Finally Sally spoke. “What do you need me to do?”

“We need everything we can get on that explosion. Records on who owns the house, landlords, tenants, everything we can get.” Sally nodded. “I want all officers in this entire building on red alert for anything suspicious. We’ve got a situation - we’ve got a possible second explosion - and we need to be on top of this. I’m going to contact MI5.”

Sally nodded. “Good choice, boss.”

“Yeah,” Greg agreed. “It’s our investigation, but there might have been communication they’ve missed or something somewhere down the line. Our information might be critical. Get Brockhurst and Henman out along Baker Street. I want statements from everybody who lives there.”

“And Romowicz?”

“Sherlock’s at Bart’s. I want her to go along and keep a subtle eye on him. She can pick up those files from Molly Hooper while she’s there for that body we found yesterday. The postmortem should have been completed by now.”

Sally nodded. “On it.”

She walked out and left Greg behind his desk. He picked up his phone and looked at Mycroft’s number. He’d promised to contact MI5, but he could only do that through a more senior officer at the Yard, and he didn’t want to alert anyone to Sherlock’s involvement.

He frowned. It wasn’t the first time he was aware of just how many rules he was breaking. But this was the first time he felt there really were lives at stake, and that he’d left Sherlock in command to sort it. And was that a risk worth taking? Sherlock was great and all, and the envelope might have been for him and the phone might have been for him, but was Greg in his right mind to put so much belief in the self-proclaimed consulting detective?

Greg thought he must be mad. He looked through the glass of his office walls. Donovan was assembling the team. She was good at that. Putting things in motion.

Greg rubbed his face. Twelve hours to solve my puzzle, the woman on the phone had dictated. Greg looked at his watch. Less than that now. More like 11 hours. If it got down to six hours, then he would call Mycroft.

With every passing hour without a word from Sherlock, Greg found himself growing agitated. He tried calling and texting both Sherlock and John but to no reply. He found himself pacing. He was calling his team half-hourly to see where they were.

And then it hit the six hour mark. Greg stared down at his phone. Part of him wanted to give Sherlock more time. But he couldn’t wait forever.

 

MESSAGES  
5.41pm: Might have a situation.  
Possible hostage, relying on SH  
to sort it. Advice?

 

MESSAGES Mycroft Holmes  
5.43pm: He will work it out. M

 

Greg rubbed his face. He will work it out. He nodded. He would.

Another hour passed. Five to go. That poor woman, whatever was happening, wherever she was… Greg was exhausted. He went out and grabbed a burger from McDonalds, but only ate half of it before chucking it away.

Four hours to go. Greg went home and Jane made him some food, but he barely touched it. She watched him pacing, but didn’t push him for answers. He slumped in the sofa and she curled up to his side and stroked his arm.

 

MESSAGES  
7.56pm: This is taking too long.  
We’ve got 4 hours to go.

 

MESSAGES Mycroft Holmes  
7.58pm: He will work it out, I  
promise. M

 

Greg jumped when his phone rang. Sherlock. Jane watched him from the kitchen. “Tell me you’ve solved it?” Greg demanded.

“She’s at Watergate Bay car park in Newquay. Strapped up with Semtex,” Sherlock said.

Greg let out a long breath. “Alright.”

“Do you want to know how I-”

“-No,” Greg cut him off. “Later, but not now. I need to sort this out.” Greg hung up and phoned Sally. “You still at the Yard?”

“Yeah, what’s up?”

“We need the Cornish police and a bomb squad to head to Watergate Bay car park in Newquay.”

“Hang on, read that to me again.”

“Watergate Bay car park in Newquay. Cornwall. I’m on my way back now, but you need to sort it.”

“I’ve got it, Lestrade,” Sally said, hanging up the phone.

Greg sighed up and rubbed his face. Jane walked over and looked at him. “A bomb squad?” she asked.

He nodded. “Yeah. It’s fine. Gonna be fine. But I need to go back to work.” He kissed her. “Will you put dinner in the fridge? I might be able to eat it when I get back.” He grabbed his coat.

“When will that be?”

“Don’t know,” Greg said. “Soon as I know this woman’s safe.”

Greg drove back to the Yard. He sat down at Sam’s desk as he and Sally put the phone on speaker to listen to the Cornish police fill them in on the details.

“Two men broke into her house wearing masks,” a sergeant informed them. “And they forced her to drive to a car park, decked her out in Semtex and then told her to phone a number using a pager.”

“Send it here,” Greg said.

“The pager?”

“Yeah. In fact, scrap that, I need it now. I don’t care how you do it, just get it here for the morning.”

“The Post Office doesn’t deliver this late,” the sergeant replied.

“I need that pager,” Greg said. “Just do whatever you can to get it here. My department will pay for it if you need us to.”

“Lestrade,” Sally warned and Greg shook his head.

“Just do it.” He put the phone down and looked across at Sally. “So that’s what we’re dealing with. Explosives and puzzles.”

“People are going to die,” Sally said. “You can’t trust Sherlock Holmes to do this.”

“I have to,” Greg said. “It’s all we’ve got.”

“It’s on you.”

“It’s always on me,” Greg told her. “It’s always on me.”

 

* * *

 

Four pips. An abandoned car, covered in blood. Sherlock running off, John dutifully tagging along behind him.

Sally continued to glare at Greg, barely speaking to him. And even when they took Mrs Monkford into custody and charged her with fraud, and made the calls to get Mr Monkford back from Columbia, Sally was still openly irritated with him.

 

* * *

 

A new game. A household name. Connine Prince, aged 54.

“Why is he doing this, the bomber?” Greg asked Sherlock. “If this woman’s death was suspicious, why point it out?”

“Good Samaritan,” Sherlock murmured.

“Who press-gangs suicide bombers?”

“Bad Samaritan.”

“I’m serious, Sherlock. Listen. I’m cutting you slack here. I’m trusting you – but out there somewhere, some poor bastard’s covered in Semtex and is just waiting for you to solve the puzzle. So just tell me: what are we dealing with?”

Sherlock looked away. “Something new.” He walked away, leaving Greg to consider those words. Greg sighed and stared at the body.

Anxious. He was so anxious and on edge. He could see the nerves written on the faces of everyone in his team. Sam tried to lighten the atmosphere as he regaled a tale of a rare failed attempt at a sexual encounter. Apparently the woman had poured red wine down his favourite shirt.

“You are such a sexist pig,” Sally spat at him.

“Oh come on, that’s not true. Women are perfectly entitled to pick me up too.”

Sally rolled her eyes.

Sam laughed. “Look, come on, it’s not like that, Sal.”

“Shut up, Brockhurst.”

Sam folded his arms and sank into his chair. “Don’t know why everyone’s so fucking miserable today. Lighten up a bit folks, no one’s been killed by the bomber yet. Sherlock’s solving it, police are running in and saving the day and everything is hunky-dory. C’mon, Sal. Stop being mad at me.”

“You’re being an arse,” she said.

“C’mon, Sal. Crack a smile. You know you want to. Imagine all that red wine on my £100 shirt.”

She turned and stared at him. “You spent £100 on a shirt?”

Sam grinned. “See. Bathe in my misery. Enjoy the one time out of 10 that a woman didn’t actually want me.”

From his place by the wall, Greg finally cracked and laughed despite himself. Sally chucked a ball of tinfoil at Sam, but she began to smile as she turned back to his computer.

“You’re a bloody nightmare, Brockhurst,” Greg said as he walked past. He patted him on the shoulder. “Keep us entertained yeah, mate? We’re gonna need it.”

Sam grinned and nodded and went back to his work. Greg grabbed his coat and drove to Baker Street to see how Sherlock was getting along.

 

* * *

 

Greg and Sherlock stood at the wall behind the sofa, staring at maps and photographs and press cuttings.

Sherlock was pacing, muttering. “Connection, connection, connection. There must be a connection.” He stopped and looked at the wall. “Carl Powers, killed 20 years ago. The bomber knew him, admitted that he knew him.”

Greg went to speak, but Sherlock continued. “The bomber’s iPhone was in stationery from the Czech Republic. First hostage from Cornwall, the second from London, the third from Yorkshire, judging by her accent. What’s he doing – working his way round the world? Showing off?”

The pink phone rang. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you? Joining the… dots. Three hours: boom… boom.”

Sherlock looked at Greg and put the phone back in his pocket, putting his hands up in front of his face as he stared at the wall.

Greg didn’t need to say anything. Whether Sherlock was determined to solve this because someone was going to die, or because he was determined to solve it because he wanted to solve a puzzle, that wasn’t important.

 

* * *

 

Greg led Sherlock and John to his office.

“So, what do you do now?” Greg asked as he and John stood behind the seat.

“I just put the answer into my website,” Sherlock said as he typed out Raoul de Santos, the house-boy, botox.

The phone rang and Sherlock answered it. “Hello? Tell us where you are. Address. No, no, no, no.” Greg frowned at the near-panic in Sherlock’s voice. “Tell me nothing about him. Nothing. Hello?”

Greg glanced at him. “Sherlock?”

“What’s happened?” John asked.

Sherlock slowly lowered the phone from his ear. Oh God. Greg bit his bottom lip. “Sherlock?” he repeated.

“She started telling me about him,” Sherlock murmured. “Big mistake.”

Greg turned away from him and looked up at the ceiling. Dead. Not just that. Strapped up with enough explosives to - what? One of the victims had been set up with enough to destroy an entire house. And there was no telling who she was, or where she was at the moment.

But dead. Greg shook his head and walked out of his office, leaving Sherlock and John in there to pick up some of the pieces of their own mess.

Sally was on the phone, her face grave. Greg looked at her and she nodded. He rubbed his face. Even Sam looked defeated.

Greg locked himself away in his office until 10.46pm, when he realised he was so exhausted that words were swimming in front of his eyes. He walked home, not willing to risk himself in the car. He shuffled into the bedroom and slid under the covers.

“Greg?” Jane murmured, rolling over and touching his cold shoulder with her hand. “Y’okay, babe?”

He shook his head.

“Oh, hun.” She moved closer still, stroking his chest. “Y’want to talk?”

“No, can’t.”

“Okay.”

“It’s all on me, Jane,” he said. “All on me. If Sherlock doesn’t solve it and someone explodes then it is still on me because I let him run around like a fucking superhero. As though he and his mind can just solve it all and save the world. And I shouldn’t be doing it. Why do I… just. Always bloody trust Sherlock Holmes.”

“Shh, sweetie. It’s okay. It’s all okay.”

“It’s not though, is it? And I’ll wake up tomorrow and there will be more bloody pips and I’ll keep doing it, I’ll keep letting him run riot.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Jane said. “But, y’wanna hear what I think at all?”

“Yeah, I do.”

“I think Sherlock’s brilliant. Truly, I do. I think he’s an awful human being at times, but I think he’s out of the ordinary in so many ways. And I think you are a wonderful person for giving him the opportunity to prove it. Greg, babe, you can’t win them all. Sometimes bad things happen to good people and it is not your fault.”

Greg nodded, but he wasn’t sure he believed it.

“If Sherlock is the man you trust to solve this, whatever is going on, then that’s okay.”

Greg rubbed his face. “People died, Jane. They died because of-”

“-Do not end that sentence, Greg Lestrade, or I swear I will kick you out of bed.” He glanced at her. She crossed her arms and smiled a bit. “Okay, I won’t kick you out of the bed, because you’re too damn sexy for that.”

Greg snorted.

“But I will tell you that if you ever, ever blame yourself for someone else’s death when it is definitely not your fault, I’m gonna kick your booty so hard.”

Greg managed a laugh and hugged her. He struggled to sleep, but it was comforting to have her warm body beside him.

 

* * *

 

_April, 2010_

In the morning, they got another arrest. Henman and Romowicz brought Raoul de Santos in for questioning. He broke down after 10 minutes and admitted to the murder.

 

* * *

 

Another body. This time by the Thames. Paintings, Golem, £30million. And if Sherlock was making sense of things then that was good for him. But for Greg, it felt as though a web of confusion was knitting through his brain.

With every body, every puzzle, every question he was less sure. Not less sure of Sherlock. If anything, his faith in him grew with every answer. But there was that niggle in his head.

‘You’ve been around the past five years,’ Sherlock had said, and yes, Greg had been.

He’d met the psycho weapons manufacturer who wanted Mycroft out of the picture so he could keep selling his guns and bombs abroad illegally. A psycho weapons manufacturer who hired a criminal syndicate to murder, stage break-ins, knock him into the Thames. And it was a criminal syndicate that was still out there, still working.

And now a someone - something? - was making a neat little game for Sherlock to play. Moriarty. And as Greg slumped at his desk, he realised the thing he guessed Sherlock and Mycroft already knew. MORiarty.

There are no coincidences, Sherlock always said. And Greg saw how it played out.

Rickard Luck hired the MORnetwork to get to Mycroft. The MORnetwork did its job. Somewhere along the line, the MORnetwork itself got interested in Sherlock. Or Mycroft. Or both.

Greg grabbed his phone.

 

MESSAGES  
3.19pm: You know, don’t you?  
You know what this all means?  
Why don’t you tell me things?  
Stop treating me like I don’t  
deserve answers.

 

MESSAGES Mycroft Holmes  
3.21pm: I have no idea what you  
are referring to. M

 

MESSAGES  
3.21pm: MOR

 

MESSAGES Mycroft Holmes  
3.23pm: A coincidence. M

 

MESSAGES:  
3.25pm: It bloody well isn’t.  
What am I dealing with?

 

MESSAGES Mycroft Holmes  
3.25pm: I don’t know. M

 

MESSAGES  
3.27pm: YOU ALWAYS KNOW

 

MESSAGES Mycroft Holmes  
3.28pm: You are mistaken. M

 

MESSAGES:  
3.29pm: I don’t think I am.

 

MESSAGES Mycroft Holmes  
3.34pm: I loathe texting. Do you  
have a point? M

 

Greg growled at his phone. “Bastard,” he muttered. He put his phone down on his desk. Damn right he had a point. A damn bloody good one. But if Mycroft Holmes was too pretentious to listen, then he wasn’t going to waste his time on it.

 

* * *

 

And then the sound of a young boy’s voice came out of the pink phone.

“It’s a kid,” Greg said. “Oh, God, it’s a kid!”

“It’s a countdown,” Sherlock explained, looking at the painting. “He’s giving me time.”

But Greg barely heard him. It was a kid. A child, primed to explode, and no, it was too much. Way too much. Greg felt the fear takeover his entire body. And he’d been here before. The outrage that someone would hurt a child, damage them for life. Or worse. Not give them a life at all.

“It’s speeding up,” Greg cried out desperately as the boy’s voice continued to count down. He sounded resilient, this child. He probably didn’t know… how could he know? Just a kid. A vulnerable child.

“Oh!” Sherlock exclaimed. “In the planetarium! You heard it too. Oh, that is brilliant! That is gorgeous!” Sherlock put the phone in John’s hands as he walked away and pulled his own phone from his pocket.

“What’s brilliant?” John asked. “What is?”

Sherlock laughed in delight. “This is beautiful. I love this!”

This was no fucking time to be fucking clever. “Sherlock!” Lestrade yelled as Sherlock grabbed the pink phone back from John.

“The Van Buren Supernova!”

There was a short pause. Then the boy spoke. “Please. Is somebody there? Somebody help me.”

Sherlock handed the phone to Greg. “There you go. Go find out where he is and pick him up.”

Greg took the phone from him and walked away. “Hey, mate. My name’s Greg Lestrade. I work for the police.”

“Can… can you help me?” the boy asked.

“Yeah. Yes, of course. That’s what the police do, alright, mate? They help people. And I’m going to help you. Now, can you tell me where you are?”

“I don’t know.” The boy sniffed. “Don’t know.”

Greg leaned against a wall. “Let’s play a game yeah? Just a quick one. I spy.”

“Okay,” the boy’s voice shook.

“You go first.”

“I spy with my little eye… something beginning with R.”

“R,” Greg murmured. “Road?”

“Yeah. And something else.”

Greg frowned. “River.”

“Yes!”

“Well done, you win. Go again,” Greg said.

“I spy… something beginning with… Tate Mod! There’s a building and it says Tate Mod on it.”

Greg frowned. “Spell it.”

“T-A-T-E M-O-D.”

“Tate Modern,” Greg murmured. “You’re by the Tate Modern. Do you see a bridge?”

“Yes!”

“That’s called Millennium Bridge,” Greg said as he pulled his phone out and started texting the location to Sally, Sam, Leon and Piper all at once, in the hopes one of them would read it straight away. “Do you know what the Millennium is?”

“I was born in the millennium!” the boy exclaimed. “I’m 10!”

“Are you? That’s amazing, mate. What did you get for your birthday?”

Sally text to say they were on their way.

“I got… um… Scalextric!”

“Wow! I wish I had Scalextric,” Greg said.

“The cars go round in circles and race.”

“That’s brilliant,” Greg said. Sherlock walked up to him and frowned. He went to speak but Greg held his hand up to stop him. “What’s your name, mate?”

“I’m Alex.”

“Alex. What a good name. My name is Greg.”

The boy laughed. “You already said that, silly.”

Greg laughed, more in relief than anything else. “You’re right! You must be properly smart.”

The boy laughed again. “Yeah! I got a gold star in maths.”

“A gold star? I never got a gold star. That’s really, really impressive.”

The boy quietened. “I’m scared.”

“It’s alright,” Greg said. “There are people on their way and they’re going to help you.”

“Police?”

“Yeah, police.”

“Am I in trouble?” the boy’s voice shook.

“No, mate,” Greg said. “No, you’re really, really good. You’ve done so well. You deserve another gold star. I just need you to keep talking to me, okay? What’s your favourite subject at school?”

“Hmmmmm. Maths!”

“And you’re good at maths, yeah?”

“Yup!”

“That’s really clever,” Greg said.

“And PE!”

Greg smiled a bit. “PE is good. What sport do you like?”

“Rugby. I see… there are people coming to me in big suits. I’m scared, Greg.”

“It’s alright. They’re there to help you. I promise. No one is going to hurt you, Alex.”

“Are they going to help me?”

“Yes, they are. And they’ll take you back home.”

“I miss my mummy and daddy,” the boy said quietly.

“You’ll be home safe and sound.”

“They’re… they’re taking this big coat off now,” the boy said. “The wires and things.” There was a long pause. “They told me I’m safe now. There’s a woman here. Hang on.” The conversation was faint, but Greg could still hear it. “Hi Piper! That’s a funny name. I’m Alex and I’m 10.”

“Who you on the phone to?” Piper asked.

“This is Greg!” Alex said. “We played I Spy. He’s a policeman too.”

“I know Greg,” Piper told him. “He’s a really, really good policeman. And you’re safe now, Alex. Do you want to tell Greg you’re safe and then hang up the phone so I can take you home?”

“Okay.” Alex’s voice was clear again. “Greg! Piper tells me to say bye now. Thank you for I Spy.”

“Anytime. Keep doing well in maths, kiddo.”

“Thank you!”

The phone call ended. Greg closed his eyes and held the pink phone out to Sherlock. “Take this off me now,” he muttered.

“Lestrade.”

“Get it off me!”

Sherlock took it from him, watching. “I don’t understand what’s bothering you. He’s alive.”

Greg pressed his lips together. “Doesn’t matter. We’re taking Miss Wenceslas to the Yard, and charging her with as many bloody offences as I can fit on a sheet of paper.”

 

* * *

 

“I found a little old man in Argentina,” Mrs Wenceslas told them. “Genius. I mean, really. Brushwork immaculate, could fool anyone.”

“Hmm,” Sherlock muttered.

Miss Wenceslas looked at Sherlock. “Well, nearly anyone.” She looked back at Greg. “But I didn’t know how to go about convincing the world the picture was genuine. It was just an idea – a spark which he blew into a flame.”

“Who?” Sherlock asked. “Who?”

“I don’t know,” she said. Greg laughed disbelievingly. “It’s true. I mean, it took a long time, but eventually I was put in touch with people. His people. Well, there was never any real contact, just messages… whispers.”

“And did those whispers have a name?” Sherlock asked.

She glanced at Greg and then back at Sherlock. “Moriarty.”

Sherlock sat back in his chair. Miss Wenceslas glanced anxiously at Greg. Sherlock slowly raised his hands to his chin in his familiar steeple position. And then, he began to grin.

Greg glanced at him. “Moriarty. This is all Moriarty.”

Sherlock continued to smile. “Yes it is.”

“I thought Moriarty might have links with the…” Greg glanced at Miss Wenceslas. “Hang on there, Sherlock, I’ll fill you in in a second. Miss Wenceslas, you’re under arrest charged with criminal conspiracy and fraud. You do not need to anything, but anything you do say can and will be given in evidence.”

She sniffed and stood up, holding her hands out in front of her as Greg cuffed her. He walked her out of his office. “Donovan. Deal with her a minute. I just need to finish talking to Sherlock.” He walked back into his office. “I thought Moriarty might have something to do with the MORnetwork.”

“Yes,” Sherlock agreed. “Consulting criminal. Got a crime that needs doing, Moriarty will fix it.”

Greg sighed. “And before. They did those jobs so Rickard Luck could get to Mycroft.”

Sherlock frowned. “I have no idea what you’re talking about and I’m not interested right now, that was in the past and I don’t care about Mycroft.”

Greg rolled his eyes. “Fine. But this is nothing new, Sherlock. All of this. It comes back to the MORnetwork.”

“It’s not called that anymore,” Sherlock murmured. “It’s too quaint, too much like running a business. No, he likes having his own name in the public domain. Feeds on it. Like a signature on a painting. See this piece of work? This is mine. See this bomb? Moriarty did this. He wants us to know. He’s building up to something. He got bored of doing crimes for other people. So he committed his own.” Sherlock stood. “I’ll be in touch.”

“Sherlock, wait.”

“No. I’ll be at Baker Street.”

Greg sighed.

He drove home at 8.41pm and was stunned to see the lights were off. He was greeted by an over-excited Louis, and he gave him a quick five minute walk around the block. He text Jane a quick message.

 

MESSAGES  
8.56pm: Hi. I’m home. You  
out? X

 

MESSAGES Jane Lestrade  
9pm: Hey love sorry! Out with work  
people! Will be home about 10.  
There’s some food in the oven.  
Xxx

 

Greg sighed and slumped onto the sofa. He leaned back and closed his eyes. The image of a child wrapped in Semtex flashed before his eyes. He felt his hand shake. He couldn’t just sit here.

 

MESSAGES  
9.06pm: Popping out too.  
Shouldn’t be late. X

 

He and dialled the only number he could think of in this situation.

“Mycroft Holmes,” he answered.

Greg sighed in relief at his voice. “Hi. Sorry, I know it’s late.”

“What’s wrong?”

“It’s the case, there was just. There was this kid and…” He trailed off, frowning.

“I understand, of course. I’m at the office in Whitehall. Please come, if you’d like to.”

“Are you sure? I don’t want to distract you.”

“I’d quite welcome it.”

“I’ll be about half an hour,” Greg said, already grabbing his coat and heading outside. He got into the car and drove to Mycroft’s Whitehall office.

The building was quiet. It would have appeared empty, but for the lines of light around many of the doors. Whitehall never slept, it seemed. People were working long hours, probably getting by on adrenaline and goodness knows what else.

The very thought of how tiring that would be reminded Greg of how drained he was. Too stressed to sleep, too exhausted not to try soon.

He found Mycroft’s door and knocked. “Come in.”

He opened the door, forgetting their last text conversation had been anything but jovial. Mycroft watched him as he shuffled over to the chair, slumping into it. “Difficult week,” Mycroft murmured.

“Yeah.” Greg rubbed his face.

“What can I do?”

“I don’t know.”

Mycroft nodded and stood up, taking hold of his chair and dragging it round the desk. He walked to the other side of the room and Greg heard the sound of boiling water. He didn’t look around as Mycroft brought over a coffee, putting it down on the desk in front of him. “Give that a few moments to cool down first.”

Greg managed a smile. “Yeah, yeah,” he said.

Mycroft took the seat beside him with a cup of tea. “A child was wrapped in Semtex?”

“Yeah.”

Mycroft nodded. “But he’s alive?”

“He is. He’s fine. Unlike those 12 other people in that flat.” Greg shook his head. “Then this kid. Look, this has been difficult. I’ve been relying on Sherlock to get it done. What kind of idiot am I?”

“A brave one.”

Greg snorted and shook his head. “Just a total prat.”

“Cases with children in are always difficult for you, Greg. They always have been. That’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

“I heard his voice, y’know? How scared he was.”

Mycroft reached over and briefly touched Greg’s arm. He took a deep breath and felt inexplicably calmed already. “I am doing everything I can to help Sherlock,” Mycroft said. “We are looking into every avenue. Please don’t think I’m oblivious to what’s going on.”

“And what is going on?” Greg asked looking at him.

“There is a man running around London calling himself a consulting criminal. And has been for some time.”

“And what do I do?” Greg asked, reaching for his coffee.

“Continue to be a good policeman.”

Greg sipped his coffee and looked around the room. “I can’t see where this going.”

“For Sherlock, that’s where it becomes fun.”

“It’s not a game, Mycroft. It’s not fun to me. This is people’s lives. And now I’ve got to - what? To try and keep a mad consulting detective under control, keep an eye out for his gun-wielding, trigger-happy flatmate and at the same time remember there’s an absolute psychopath running around London making games for Sherlock to play? People died.”

“People always die.”

“They’re not just cannon fodder.”

Mycroft frowned and shook his head. “I misspoke, I apologise.”

“He sorted it, Mycroft. He solved all of them. He pushed it to the wire with that kid. Right down to the last 10 seconds. And even when he solved it, he was still babbling rather than saying the answer.”

“The child is happily reunited with his parents.”

“With nightmares for the rest of his life.”

“Perhaps not.”

Greg shook his head. “I can’t feel optimistic about that.”

“You are not alone in this, Greg.”

“You better promise me that, Mycroft. You better be absolutely serious about that. Because I’m not sure how long I can keep my team sat back, letting Sherlock solve it all. And I don’t know how many more bodies on my conscience I can deal with.”

“They are not on your conscience.”

“Yes, they are. All of them are.”

They looked at each other. Mycroft nodded and Greg looked away. Mycroft spoke first. “All I can promise is that I will not abandon you. Any of you. Even when you think you’re alone, you’re not. I am working impossibly hard to solve this, Greg. And we will. We all will.”

“And what if someone I care about is in the firing line, Mycroft? How many risks are we going to have to take? Because this bloke. This bloke doesn’t care about making kids explode. He doesn’t give a damn if 12 people die in a bomb blast.”

“But you do.”

“What does that matter?” Greg snapped.

“It means you will give your all to bring about a resolution. And I am on your side.”

Greg bit his lip and drank his coffee, them both sitting in the silence. Greg finally nodded. “Alright.”

“Alright?” Mycroft asked.

“Yeah. Fine. I believe you. You’re sticking around. Thank you.”

“I will always be working in the background.”

Greg sighed and stood. “I should get home.” He bit his lip. “Mycroft, I.” He shook his head. “I dunno.”

“It will be fine, Greg.”

Greg nodded and looked down at Mycroft. He trusted him. They’d got through worse before. Greg held his hand out and Mycroft shook it. They clasped hands for a long time, just looking at each other. And finally Greg let go, when he couldn’t stand the heat of it anymore.

“I will be in touch,” Mycroft said.

“Yeah,” Greg said. “Yeah, I’ll talk to you soon.” He took one last look at the man and left the room. He wasn’t as soothed as he thought he was going to be. He thought Mycroft might provide a miracle cure to his heart, but that wasn’t the case. But he did feel a bit better. A little more in control. Because Mycroft was there.

He didn’t realise he was smiling until he reached his car.


	45. It's Braver Sometimes Just To Run

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For generous and wonderful comments on the last two chapters, I just want to extend a quick heartfelt thank you to psychicdreams, JustLookFrightenedAndScuttle, Vonne, Kaci, Novels, CommunionNimrod, KingTaran, MoonRiver, ladyxdarcy, Jaeh, Mice, Maliciouspixie5, miss_anthr0pe, Jill, Per_Solem, WhiskeySally, artemisdecibal, Jalizar, ivefoundmygoldfish (melonpanparade), moon_raker and sherl_jawn.

_May, 2010_

On May 6, the country went to the polls.

Greg had been persuaded to vote, although he had never had any real affiliation to a party and wasn’t entirely convinced of any of their policies. Nonetheless, he decided Labour would do better for the police than the others and so at 6.34pm, that was where the cross on his ballot paper went.

He got home early (early for him, anyway) and found Jane had just got out of the shower. “I’m off out,” she told him.

Greg frowned. “Out? But I’m home early.”

“It’s on the calendar, hun.”

Greg walked through to the kitchen and looked at their calendar. There it was. Jane was out with her sister. He walked back to the bedroom just as she began to towel-dry her hair. “What can I make for dinner?” he asked her.

“There’s plenty of chicken. Mince too, I think. Not sure if we have any tinned tomatoes though, I’m going shopping tomorrow.”

Greg sat down on the end of the bed. “How was your day?”

“Good, ta.”

“So, where you going with your sister?”

“We’re trying out a new pub down the road. Apparently we have lots to catch up on.”

Greg raised his eyebrows. “A lot to catch up on since seeing her last week?”

Jane frowned at him. “What’s the problem?”

“Nothing. None. There’s no problem.” Greg pulled his phone out of his pocket and looked at it. “I might send a text around and see if anyone at the Yard fancies some drinks or something then.”

Jane smiled at him. “Good plan. Will you walk Louis before you go?”

“Yeah, course.”

“Thank you! I really appreciate it.”

Greg scrolled through his contacts. He probably could encourage a few people to join him down the pub, but either they were still at the Yard or they’d gone home, and many of their flats were inconveniently spread out across London.

He scrolled back up through the list of names again. Mycroft. His thumb hovered over the name. It was the General Election, he was probably busy. Greg text him anyway.

 

MESSAGES  
7.21pm: The mrs is out for dinner  
tonight. Wondered if you fancied  
dinner or something?

 

Greg got up from the bed and wandered to the kitchen. He put Louis’ lead on, and led him out of the house. His phone rang while he was walking. “Lestrade.”

“Good evening.”

Greg smiled. “Hey, Mycroft. You alright?”

“Yes, very well. Dinner would be excellent.”

“Yeah? Great. Anywhere particular?”

“Take-away?”

Greg grinned. “Definitely. Your place or mine?”

“Come to Crusader House. Do you have a preference?”

“None at all. Actually. Chinese?”

“As though you read my mind,” Mycroft replied. “8.30pm?”

“Yeah, I’ll see you there.”

“See you soon.” Mycroft hung up.

Greg led Louis to the nearby park, throwing a ball for him. He was surprised Jane was going out again. Sometimes they felt like passing strangers in their own flat, with Greg’s long - and sometimes unusual - hours. It had happened before, Greg knew. With Caroline. He could see the pattern forming, the one which led her to stray. But Jane wasn’t like Caroline. Jane was upfront and would pull him up if something was annoying her. Wouldn’t she?

Greg thought their marriage was pretty strong actually. They were having fairly regular sex, despite spending little time with each other outside of the bedroom. They just about managed to have a meal or two at the same time a week. And they both talked about their days, and Sherlock and debated the merits of voting.

Jane was fine, Greg decided. She was just going out and enjoying himself, just like he intended to do tonight. He liked that they didn’t have an over-reliance on each other for company. That might have been the problem he had with Caroline. But not this time. This one was very different.

Jane went out soon after Greg returned with Louis. The dog flopped into his bed and Jane gave Greg a quick kiss. “I should be back by 10.30pm,” she said.

“Yeah, me too.”

She smiled at him. “Have a nice night.”

Greg slumped into the sofa and watched her go. He stayed there watching television for a while, before finally getting up and changing out of his work shirt. He found a t-shirt to put on instead, brushed a hand through his hair and left the flat with a carrier bag of books.

He walked to Crusader House. It was mild out; he only needed a jacket. He smiled at the doorwoman who let him in and he walked up to Mycroft’s flat. The butler graciously nodded his head and let Greg into the flat. Mycroft sat in his chair beside the fire and he smiled and stood when Greg walked in.

“Good evening,” Mycroft said, walking towards him.

Greg handed the bag of books over. “I’m done with these.”

“How were they?”

Greg smiled at him. “Not my favourites all of them, but good anyway.”

“I took the liberty of ordering our dinner,” Mycroft said, walking round to one of the bookcases. Greg followed him and Mycroft put the books back in their rightful places. Greg glanced at him as he studied the rows of books. Mycroft reached out and took a green one from the top shelf. “Try this one when you are having a bad day.”

Greg took it from him and looked at the cover. “That’s great. Thank you.”

Mycroft pulled two more out and gave them to Greg. “And these provide a good balance of thought-provoking narrative and dry humour.”

Greg smiled. “Brilliant. Thanks for these.”

“You’re welcome. What can I get you to drink?”

“What are you having?”

“I’m afraid I’ve already started on the whiskey,” Mycroft said.

“Then I’ll have the same.”

Mycroft walked to the decanter and poured Greg a glass.

“I thought you’d be busy tonight,” Greg said. “With the General Election and stuff.”

“No, it’s all just parties. Too much self-congratulation and commiseration for my liking.”

Greg took the drink from him, their fingers brushing together. He sipped it and closed his eyes for a brief moment. “Yeah, that’s good,” he said. His compliment was met with Mycroft’s quick smile before they each took a seat on the sofa.

“And how is everything?” Mycroft asked.

“It’s good. Rumbling on much the same as usual. You?”

“Quieter than normal. Everything will pick up once the election is over. How are Sherlock and Doctor Watson?”

“The usual too,” Greg told him. “Getting in trouble, I’m sure.”

Mycroft nodded. There was a knock on the door and he got up to retrieve the food. Greg picked up their drinks and went through to the kitchen. He smiled when he saw the stegosaurus bottle holder on the side, being used to protect a bottle of wine. He found the plates and cutlery, and Mycroft joined him a moment later, opening the boxes. They sat down with the spread of food between them.

They began topping up their plates with an assortment of meats and sauces.

“John’s blog has potential to get us in a bit of trouble,” Greg said after a minute.

“Mm,” Mycroft replied.

Greg glanced at him. “What?”

“Nothing. Merely agreeing with you.”

“But you’re not going to discourage it?”

“I don’t believe discouraging anything would make the slightest difference. If anything, my discouragement would add fuel to the fire.”

Greg laughed. “I believe that. Did I see some plum sauce somewhere?”

“Yes, you did.” Mycroft handed him the container.

“Cheers.” They sat in comfortable silence as they ate, passing each other the boxes and containers. Eventually Greg sat back in his chair and rubbed his stomach. He finished his glass of whiskey. “Brilliant.”

Mycroft smiled. “It was.”

Greg stood up and started clearing everything away.

“You don’t need to do that,” Mycroft said.

“Yeah, I know, but I like to be useful.” Greg put the plug in the sink and turned the taps on.

Mycroft joined him. “I’ll dry.”

“Got yourself a deal, Holmes,” Greg grinned, taking off his jacket and putting in the washing-up liquid. “So, what are your plans for tonight?”

“I’ll be watching the election, I imagine. And yourself?”

“Not a lot. Got a day off tomorrow so probably watch rubbish telly.”

“You are more than welcome to stay and watch the election coverage here with a drink.”

Greg grinned as he began washing up. “Watch the election coverage? This is only the second time I’ve ever voted. I don’t think the election coverage will keep me entertained.” He bit his lip. “Unless… nah.”

“Unless what?”

Greg grinned at Mycroft. “Unless we make it interesting.”

“That expression of yours has the power to invoke terror in far stronger men than me,” Mycroft remarked, eyeing him warily.

Greg laughed. “Drinking game.”

“A drinking game?”

“Yup. What happens on the election coverage exactly?”

“They go through each area of the country, constituency by constituency and declare the results.”

“That’s it then,” Greg said.

“What is?” Mycroft asked, as Greg handed him a fork, as their washing and drying system began to coordinate perfectly.

“For each constituency, we’ll predict the result as it comes up. So, what, do they announce a percentage?”

“Yes.”

“Right,” Greg grinned. “Good. Then we have to say who wins and what percentage they get. And loser drinks whatever is left in their glass.”

Mycroft frowned. “I’m a Civil Servant. I don’t imagine this game will have a good outcome for you.”

“I’ll be drunk and in your company. I don’t see how I lose.”

Mycroft chuckled. “You may regret that choice of words in the morning.”

“I’ll be hungover after a good night.”

“What does the winner get?” Mycroft asked.

“Glory. And hopefully as drunk as the loser.” Greg handed Mycroft the last spoon. “I’m not planning on losing all of them. I’m getting you as wasted as me, Mycroft. That’s a promise.”

“I’ve never played a drinking game before,” Mycroft said.

Greg grinned. “First time for everything.” He emptied the sink, dried his hands and carried their glasses through to the living room. He put the decanter down on the table by the sofa, topping up both their drinks.

Mycroft emerged and carefully took his picture down from in front of the television. He switched it on. The news was just finishing.

“So, what can I expect?” Greg asked, as Mycroft took a seat beside him. “Lots of chatting and analysis?”

“Yes, rather a lot.”

“I’ve never watched this before. Oh, I know that bloke though. David Dimbleby right?”

Mycroft smiled at him. “Yes. I presume I don’t need to tell you the names of the Prime Minister and those running against him?”

Greg snorted and sipped his drink. “No, I’ve got that, cheers. Not a total idiot. I’ve been reading about their policies and all sorts.”

“Which other election did you vote in?”

“My first one, after I was 18. Just didn’t really care much after that. I didn’t see how it made a difference.”

“And what changed your mind?”

Greg shrugged. “Piper at work keeps telling me everyone has to vote. She gave me a big speech about how important it is.” He pressed his lips together. “And you. Y’know. You deal with countries all over the world where people don’t have a right to vote. I’ve heard you talk about it. And I think you think it’s important. If it’s important to you, it’s important to me.”

Mycroft looked at him, surprised. Greg offered him a small shrug in response and turned to the television. They sat quietly watching the programme and Mycroft topped up their drinks. “This is the first constituency coming up,” he said.

Greg nodded. “Um. Right. 60 per cent Tory?”

“49 per cent Labour,” Mycroft said.

They watched the screen. It was 50 per cent Labour. Greg laughed and downed his drink. “Alright. I’ll get the swing of it.”

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Mycroft asked.

“It’s a great idea.” Greg grinned at him and topped up his drink. “Come on. Trust me.”

“I do on most things.”

Greg laughed and shook his head. “Trust me on this one too. It’s fun.”

“Very well. But I fear you will become rather drunk quite quickly.”

“You can drink too you know.”

Mycroft smiled. “Yes, but not at the same speed. My turn to go first, I suppose? 50 per cent Labour.”

Greg wrinkled his nose. “36 per cent to the Conservatives.” Mycroft was right, of course, out by only two per cent and Greg finished yet another drink. He pulled a face, grinned and topped it back up. “I’ll be drunk as a skunk in 10 minutes at this rate.”

Mycroft chuckled. “Would you like a tip?”

“Yes please.”

“In the top corner before they call each constituency is the result from the previous election. Anything above 40 per cent, you can fairly safely assume it is a safe seat.”

“Safe seat?” Greg asked.

“Meaning it is a predominantly Tory or Labour area and therefore unlikely to change. The other areas are swing seats, and are those all three parties are fighting for.”

Greg laughed. “So you were cheating.”

Mycroft chuckled. “I was using all of the facts available to me at the time.”

“Cheating.”

“I’ve shared my tip with you. If you want to call it cheating then you can indeed be as drunk as a skunk in 10 minutes time.”

They both looked at each other and laughed. Mycroft took a long sip from his drink and topped it up.

Greg glanced at the screen. “35 per cent Tory.”

“Difficult one,” Mycroft murmured. “It was Labour, but it won’t take a big swing to shift the balance to the Conservatives. 34 per cent Labour.”

Greg chewed his lip and let out a self-satisfied cheer when he saw he’d won. “Down it, Holmes,” he grinned.

Mycroft playfully rolled his eyes and downed his drink. “One victory and you’re already unbearable.”

“It might be my only win, I need to make the most of it.”

“I’m sure you’ll have many successes,” Mycroft replied. “40 per cent Conservative.”

“35 per cent Conservative,” Greg said. It was 34 per cent. Greg grinned and pointed at Mycroft. “And it’s two-all.”

“This is far too expensive to drink like this,” Mycroft said, but topped his glass up and downed it nonetheless.

Greg stared at Mycroft’s throat as he swallowed. He shifted in his seat. “So, why is this not the busiest night of the year for you?” he asked.

“It could be if I wanted it to be. Most of my staff are at parties all over London. Anthea and Arnou are on a boat on the Thames this evening. Anthea claims she’s working, but really she enjoys the free champagne.”

Greg laughed. “I can see the appeal of that.”

“I find parties exhausting. And it’s a good opportunity to sit back and watch, rather than participate in the proceedings. I have to work very closely with whomever is elected this evening. It’s better to appear completely neutral.”

“But are you? Neutral?”

“I voted just like everybody else,” Mycroft said. “Of course I have a preference.”

“Do you always vote?”

“I’ve not missed a single election, national, local or European, since I was 18.”

“That’s impressive,” Greg said. “I think Piper was right. All her reasons to vote were good ones.”

“40 per cent Conservative.”

Greg glanced at the screen. “Same party, 32 per cent.” Mycroft won and Greg finished his drink. “Right, Mycroft, answer me something.”

“Of course.”

Greg topped his drink up. He could feel the blur in his head. Nicely tipsy. “So, when you watch this. Do you see democracy in action? Is this… is this what you want in the world?”

“Democracy is vital,” Mycroft murmured. “I have seen far too many oppressed states in my line of work.”

“But is this right? Is this the perfect system?”

“Hardly. There is no foolproof, perfect system. But this is a true election. It isn’t an election masquerading as democracy where the number of votes makes no difference to the outcome.”

Greg nodded. “So, we should be proud, right?”

“Yes. I suppose we should be.”

“You’re patriotic, really, aren’t you?”

“I still won’t be watching the Football World Cup,” Mycroft said.

Greg laughed. “I didn’t even ask that.”

“No, but I was asked to participate in a sweepstake at work.”

“I’m going to set one up at the Yard. Bet I get lumbered with New Zealand.”

“Poor New Zealand.”

Greg looked at him and laughed. “Oh, God, speaking of bloody New Zealand. You know John went on holiday with his girlfriend for a couple of weeks to New Zealand?”

“I didn’t, but carry on.”

“Sherlock, right. Sherlock was obviously worse than usual. Hanging around the Yard and demanding cases and everything.” Greg started to laugh. “Anyway, we were at this case… hang on, this actually needs to be demonstrated.” Greg pulled himself out of the chair. He staggered a bit and held his hand out to steady himself. “Right, right, here this is. This is it.”

Mycroft laughed. “Greg, what are you doing?”

“I’m demonstrating!” Greg straightened up. “Right. So, he comes in, yeah?”

“Who?”

“Sherlock! I’m just standing in this big grand hall where we found a body, and it’s got these big wooden doors. And he just…” Greg laughed. “He comes in, arms wide, opening the doors with both hands like he’s bloody Aragorn in Lord Of The Rings and-”

“-I’m sorry, I don’t quite understand the reference.”

“Lord Of The Rings.”

“Yes, I am familiar with Tolkien. What I am not familiar with is how Sherlock opening two doors was anything like Aragorn.”

“You know. That scene! Where he opens the doors.” Mycroft raised his eyebrows. “You’ve never watched the movies, have you?” Greg realised. “How have you not seen Lord Of The Rings?”

“I enjoyed the books.”

“So did I, but these films are epic!”

“So are the books.”

“Yeah, but… but. Huh. Well, that’s killed my demonstration.” Greg collapsed into the chair, swinging his legs up so they were in Mycroft’s lap.

“I’m sure your theatrics were going to be quite enlightening,” Mycroft replied, resting a hand on Greg’s shin. Warmth. “Nonetheless, it is safer on the sofa. You’re swaying a lot.”

Greg laughed. “That’s because I’ve been drinking a lot of your good stuff.” Greg topped up his glass. “Such good stuff. How much is this worth a glass anyway?”

“On average? £20. The size you’re pouring yourself? More like £50.”

Greg whistled. “Knew there was a reason I keep you around.”

“I’m glad I can be of some use to you.”

“Some use? You’re too bloody useful. I should tell you to be less useful. Less… use.”

Mycroft snorted and topped his own drink. “You’re drunk, Greg.”

“And you’re not?”

“Yes, I suppose that’s accurate.”

Greg peered at him. “You don’t even seem different. How’d you do that?”

“A skill I have perfected over many years.”

“You’ve got too many skills. Dunno how you do that either.”

“A great deal of practice.”

“I bet you practice being Mycroft Holmes, don’t you? Like you’ve got to remind yourself how to do it.”

“Hardly.”

Greg peered at the TV. “They’re calling somewhere.”

Mycroft wrinkled his nose. “54 per cent Labour.”

“Nah. 61 per cent Labour.” They watched as the result popped up on the screen. Greg grinned. “And it’s victory for Lestrade, sweeping in with an extravagant guess!”

Mycroft took a long sip of his drink. “I believe we’re even.”

Greg snorted. “And you thought you were going to beat me hand over foot. What does that even mean? Hand over foot?”

“Hand over fist, and it’s usually used for financial transactions.”

“Huh. Hey, Mycroft?”

“Yes, Greg?”

“You’re not taking it easy on me are you?”

“Absolutely not. I’m supposed to be a Government employee, I should be winning.”

Greg grinned. “Y’should. Mycroft?”

“Yes?”

“No one’s gonna win this election are they?”

“Unlikely.”

“So. So, what? We all went out and voted and no one wins?”

“I expect we will have a hung parliament and then they will attempt to form a coalition.”

Greg frowned. “Because no one wants any of the bastards enough to vote for them.”

“Yes, I suppose that is fairly accurate,” Mycroft agreed.

Greg shook his head. “I voted Labour because of their police policies. Is that bad?”

“No, Greg. You should vote for whoever you feel is appropriate for you based on your own wishes and beliefs.”

“I don’t have any political beliefs. I just believe in the Mycroft Holmes Party.”

“There is no such thing.”

Greg grinned and poked Mycroft in the thigh with his big toe. “There should be. You practically run it all anyway. You’d be amazing. Maybe not so good at the economy, because you’re crap at maths.”

“I am not bad at mathematics.”

“Yeah you are. You told me so.”

“It was my weaker subject at school. I was in no way bad.”

“I could whip your arse at maths.”

“You could do no such thing,” Mycroft said.

“Could though. If I was sober. Calling it! 57 per cent Tory.”

“56 per cent Conservative.”

“You under-cutter, you.”

“Tactical, Greg.”

“You and your bloody tactics. But it’s another sweeping victory for Greg Lestrade.”

Mycroft groaned. “Good Lord, this is appalling.”

“You’re slipping,” Greg grinned. “Go on. Drink.”

“I’m already thoroughly intoxicated.”

“Intoxicate yourself some more then.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes and had another long sip of his drink. Greg grinned as he watched. They both looked at each other and laughed.

“Why do I let you do these things?” Mycroft asked as he pushed Greg’s legs off his lap and stood up and made his way to the bathroom.

“Because I am the most fun person you’ve ever met.”

Mycroft laughed and closed the door behind him. Greg grinned and stretched back out along the sofa, topping up their glasses as he did so. He pulled his phone out. He had a text from Jane.

 

MESSAGES Jane Lestrade  
10.35pm: Hey love, just got in.  
You coming back tonight? Xxx

 

MESSAGES Jane Lestrade  
11.36pm: Off to bed. Hope you’re  
safe! Have a lovely night. xxx

 

MESSAGES  
12.12am: Still out, sorry! Will  
try not to wake you up X

 

Mycroft returned and Greg got up to use the bathroom too. They smiled at each other as they crossed paths. Greg washed his hands and walked back out to join Mycroft on the sofa. As he walked into the living room, Mycroft tilted his head back to look at him over the top of the sofa.

Greg laughed as he walked up to him, brushing a stray piece of his hair back off his forehead and pressing a loud kiss against his head.

Mycroft looked at him, bemused. “What was that?”

“It was a head snog,” Greg said, collapsing onto the chair and stretching his legs back over Mycroft’s lap. Mycroft’s hand found its place on his leg again.

“I see. And just what was that in aid of?” Mycroft asked, closing his eyes and rubbing his thumb against Greg’s knee.

“Who knows,” Greg replied, closing his own eyes. He felt himself settle into the chair, listening to the talking on the television and enjoying Mycroft’s thumb stroking circles against his leg. “Just is.”

“Mm,” Mycroft said in response.

Gonna stay awake, Greg thought. Gonna stay awake listening to the elections and feeling Mycroft’s thumb… He sighed, smiling to himself. Mycroft’s thumb.

“Sleepy, Mycroft?” Greg asked tiredly.

“Mmm.”

“C’mere.”

“What?”

“C’mere,” Greg repeated.

“How drunk are you?” Mycroft asked.

“Pretty hammered. You?”

“Yes. Much the same.”

“C’mere.”

“Greg…”

“C’mere.”

He heard Mycroft sigh and shift Greg’s legs off his lap. Greg lay down on his back, shifting to the front of the sofa to allow Mycroft room to lie on his side beside him. Mycroft put his head down on Greg’s shoulder.

“Silly idea,” Mycroft murmured, as Greg wrapped one arm over him.

“Yeah,” Greg said. A small part of him knew it was. Silly idea, definitely the wrong thing for a married man to do. But Mycroft. Warm and drunk Mycroft. Greg sighed and closed his eyes. Mycroft’s arm stretched over his chest. Greg pressed his cheek to Mycroft’s hair. And they fell asleep that way.

He woke up feeling nauseous. The room was dark, but for the light from the television. There was the lovely warmth of a body pressed against his side, but a cool breeze on the other. Greg groaned and opened his eyes. Mycroft was there, his eyes still closed, making snuffling sounds as he breathed.

Oh. Mycroft. The wrong body pressed against Greg’s side. And yet. Not the wrong body. Not wrong at all. He swallowed. Oh God, this was not good at all.

Greg had been betrayed before. He’d been cheated on, he knew the pain. And though this wasn’t it, this wasn’t cheating, he knew it wasn’t the right thing to do. He didn’t want to move. It was Mycroft. With snuffly breathing. Greg thought he never once in his life had felt as torn as he did at that moment.

He knew he should move away. He knew how much Jane would hurt if she knew they were sleeping like this. (Jane put her wedding ring on her jewellery box when she went out, more than once, Greg had seen it, she spent a lot of time out, Jane could be… no, stop it Greg, you don’t have proof of that, this is Jane, not Caroline).

“Mycroft,” Greg murmured.

“Mmm. Mmm?”

“Gonna go sleep in your spare room. I’ve got a crooked neck. That alright?”

“Mmm, o’course,” Mycroft said quietly.

Greg swallowed and looked at him as he carefully peeled himself away. Mycroft sat up and touched his head. “Oh, too much whiskey.”

Greg nodded. “Yeah, too much. See you in a couple of hours, yeah?”

“Yes. Of course.”

Greg groaned and stood up, walking towards the spare room. He hesitated as he reached the door. “Mycroft?”

“Mm?”

He started speaking. He was too drunk to stop the words tumbling out of his mouth. “S’because I’m drunk. In the morning, if you forget… I hope you forget me sayin’. S’would have been nice. You and me in the bed an’ all. Shouldn’t say it. ‘Cause I’m married and…” Greg put his hand on the door. “Because I’m married.”

“She’s cheating on you,” Mycroft said softly. “I’m sorry.”

Greg closed his eyes. He knew. But the words still cut him. “How long?” he managed to ask.

“Months.”

Greg sighed. “I knew it. Deep down.”

“Go to sleep, Greg,” Mycroft said. “Don’t ask for something you’ll regret.”

Greg felt his shoulders tense. Ask… “What happens if I ask?” Greg asked.

“I don’t know if I have the power or the good conscience to say no.”

Greg swallowed. But his thumb brushed against his wedding ring. His wife might be cheating. But Greg wasn’t her, and he still loved her, despite it all. There would be a way to work it out, he was willing to try because there was no good with him and Mycroft getting together. It would only end in his broken heart and he knew it.

“Night, Mycroft,” Greg finally said as he opened the door.

“Goodnight, Greg.”

Greg closed the door behind him, stripped off his jeans and top, and slid beneath the covers. As he drifted to sleep, all he felt was cold.

 

* * *

 

In the morning, Greg dragged his sorry, hungover body out of bed. He grabbed his clothes and slipped out of the bathroom. Mycroft was no where to be seen. Greg used the bathroom and found a piece of paper and pen in the kitchen. He scribbled a small note: _Sorry for my drunken mess of a state! Talk soon. Greg._

He left Crusader House quietly, rubbing his head and cursing the birds tweeting and the sounds of the cars.

Jane was already at work when Greg got in and he collapsed into bed. His head was pounding, but he refused to let any thoughts in at all. He had never felt so confused. But hungover was not the right state to deal with anything, so he went back to sleep.

 

* * *

 

Greg got up at 2.31pm, had a shower and made himself a bacon sandwich. He collapsed in front of the sofa. He knew Jane would be home in an hour. Mycroft’s words echoed around his head.

Were he and Jane even because he’d fallen asleep with Mycroft in his arms? Did that make her cheating a little bit acceptable, because some of her concerns had been justified?

And what was he meant to say? How the hell did he confront her?

She got home at 3.34pm. She grinned at him. “Dirty stop out,” she laughed and kissed his head. “Hungover?”

“Feeling a bit better,” Greg said.

“Where’d you go?”

“I was watching the election with Mycroft.”

“I thought you were going out with work people,” Jane said, sitting down opposite him.

“I said I might, but ended up getting dinner with Mycroft.”

Jane nodded. “He doing okay?” she asked.

“Yeah, he’s good. Jane?”

She looked at him. “Yep?”

And Greg couldn’t say it. He knew he’d done the same thing with Caroline. But he couldn’t bear to be alone. However it hurt, however much it would kill him to know what was going on outside these four walls, he couldn’t bring himself to say a word. “Have a quiet night tonight?” he asked. “Just you and me?”

A slow smile spread over her face. “I can’t wait,” she replied as she stood up and walked into the kitchen. Greg’s own smile dropped from his face as looked down at his knees.

He was an idiot. 


	46. A Holy Fool Is Still A Fool

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this hasn't been as quick as usual. It's been a difficult one to write!  
> A special thank you to: Dravni, KingTaran, psychicdreams, ginepri, cosmicsoup221b, cltc75, Novels, JustLookFrightenedAndScuttle, ladyxdarcy, CommunionNimrod, chironsgirl, MoonRiver, MisplacedLonelyHeartsAd, Abbennett, Jill, WhiskeySally, Mice, Jaeh, Per_Solem, Maliciouspixie5, and cafeshostakovich. Many hugs and biscuits :)

_May, 2010_

Mycroft didn’t reply to the one text Greg sent him to ask if everything was okay. Greg didn’t blame him. He hardly knew what to say either.

He and Jane began to play a game of hide and seek, though it felt more like hiding with neither seeking the other out for anything much at all. When they spoke about their days, it felt odd that the other didn’t know about it already. When Greg would start a sentence with ‘You know that case I was working on with the banker and the ballerina’, Jane had no idea, because Greg had never told her the story, although he was sure he had.

When Jane began a sentence, as she often did, mid-way through the subject, Greg couldn’t make heads or tails of what she meant because he’d never heard about it before. And she was sure she’d mentioned it. She’d certainly told someone, and hadn’t they spoken about it last week at dinner?

And they danced around each other in muddled sentences and confusing anecdotes, and eventually stopped telling each other they hadn’t heard it before and nodded as the conversation went along, just full of pretence.

And Greg knew he was losing her when she went out more often and for longer, but he couldn’t find a word to say to pull her back to him. So he worked longer hours. He went to bed when she was already fast asleep. And it wasn’t a way to live, but he couldn’t find a thing to do to make it all better. 

 

* * *

 

 

_June, 2010_

Greg watched from a distance as Sherlock and John studied the body of a woman called Julia Stoner at Bart’s morgue. The request for Sherlock to look into the case had come via John’s blog. John was studying her body closely while Sherlock had his magnifying glass out. It was interesting watching them together. The first friend Sherlock had ever had, and yet John was mocking him quite mercilessly that afternoon.

“Do people actually read your blog?” Sherlock was asking.

“Where d’you think our clients come from?” John replied. Greg rolled his eyes. He wanted to know about the body, not watch them have a domestic.

“I have a website,” Sherlock said.

“In which you enumerate 240 different types of tobacco ash,” John told him. “Nobody’s reading your website.”

Sherlock straightened. He glared across at him while John continued to study the body. “Right then,” John said. “Dyed blonde hair, no obvious cause of death except for these speckles, whatever they are.”

Sherlock turned and stormed from the room. Greg glanced at John and then at Sherlock’s retreating back. He rolled his eyes. They’d never get anywhere at this rate. He followed Sherlock out of the morgue. “Are you in a huff?”

“No,” Sherlock said, still walking down the corridor.

Greg grinned to himself and followed. “You are! You’re in a flipping huff because people like John’s website more than yours.”

“Shut up, Lestrade.”

“Aw, c’mon, Sherlock!” Greg called after him. “I was the one who came up with the idea for your blog. I’ll always like yours better.”

“Only because it was the only decent idea you’ve ever had,” Sherlock replied bitterly. But he stopped walking away.

“It was a great idea,” Greg agreed. “Now come on. Let’s go back and deal with this body, shall we? Is it murder?”

“Hopefully.”

Greg shook his head. “Well, not really. Murder’s not a good thing, remember? You found cause of death yet?”

Sherlock pouted a bit. “No.”

“Well, why don’t you go in there and find out?”

“Why are you here anyway?” Sherlock asked. “This is my case.”

“And you need me if it’s murder. We’re reporting all this properly, Sherlock. It might be your case, but we still play by my rules.”

Sherlock huffed and glared at him. He pressed his lips together. “Fine,” he finally muttered, stalking back into the morgue. Greg grinned to himself and walked back after him.

Sherlock and John returned to studying the body. “May be a heart problem?” John said.

“No,” Sherlock replied stiffly. Still in a huff then.

“No obvious cause of death without doing an autopsy.”

“It’s murder,” Sherlock said.

“How?” Greg asked. He had a feeling Sherlock was saying murder just because that was what he wanted it to be, but he was happy to go along with it.

“I don’t know. I need to see the family.”

Greg nodded. “Alright. I’ll take you round there now then.”

John stood up and took his gloves off. Greg let out a long breath and led them out of Bart’s towards his car. He could tell it was going to be a long day.

 

* * *

 

A woman with blonde hair and a tear-stained face let Greg, Sherlock and John into her sister’s home. She smiled weakly at them, then sniffed. “Thanks for coming,” she said. “I’m Helen.”

“Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade. And this is Sherlock Holmes and Doctor John Watson. We’ve come to have a quick look at the house.”

Helen nodded. “Mmm. Go right ahead.”

Greg glanced around the living room. “You’re Julia’s sister?”

“Yeah. Do you want a drink?”

“No,” Sherlock said, looking around the room. He turned to the sister. “Did you see her recently? How did she seem?”

“She’s been a bit run-down. A bit… tired and stuff. But… she’s getting married soon, I just thought she was stressed. Was going to be getting married soon.” Helen wiped her eyes. “I can’t… couldn’t explain this.”

“Who else lives here?” Greg asked.

“Just me and Julia. Well, used to be Julia. And our step-father. Doctor Roylott.”

Sherlock frowned and walked upstairs without permission. Helen watched him go but didn’t say a word.

Greg nodded at Helen. “Thanks for letting us come by. We’ve got our best people looking into this.”

Helen offered a watery smile. “I know. I just… Maybe she was ill? I just wish I’d noticed or paid better attention.”

“I’m sure you did everything you could,” John told her.

“She was just so run down,” Helen said. “But then I found her in her bed and…” She pulled a tissue out of her pocket and blew her nose.

Sherlock walked down the stairs and exchanged looks with John. Greg looked at Sherlock and the younger man nodded at him. He’d seen all he needed. Greg turned to Helen. “We’ll be in touch,” he said.

Helen managed a smile and led them to the front door. “Whatever you need. Just… just let me know.” 

 

* * *

 

When they got the results of the autopsy, two things stood out. First, there were the two tiny puncture marks in her right ankle. Second, there was an unidentified poison in her bloodstream.

“Puncture marks,” Sherlock muttered. “What makes puncture marks?”

“A barbecue fork?” John asked. Even Greg had to snigger at that one. He and John exchanged a look and both laughed.

Sherlock glared at them both. “Puncture marks. On her ankle. Don’t be stupid.”

“We know, Sherlock,” John grinned. “Go on then. What is it?”

“A snake.”

Greg snorted. “A snake? And you thought barbecue fork was stupid?”

“John. Ring the zoos. See if any have reported one missing. Lestrade. Tell me about the family.”

John glanced at Greg. Greg shrugged, feeling it best to go with Sherlock’s hunch on this one. John sat down at Greg’s computer and began typing in the names of zoos and calling them.

“Well,” Greg started. “Her stepfather, that’s Doctor Roylott, runs a big cosmetics company. He was on that Connie Prince’s show a couple of times. You know, that woman who was killed during The Great Game case?”

“I remember,” Sherlock said.

“I met him when we picked the body up. Seemed devastated. And then there’s Julia’s fiance. A Percy Armitage. I haven’t met him yet.”

“John!” Sherlock said. “We’re going.”

Greg stood up. “Hang on. You can’t just go and interview this Armitage bloke.”

“Inspector. Don’t you have paperwork to do?”

“Yeah, but…”

“It’s my case,” Sherlock said.

“Actually, it came on my blog-” John started, but Sherlock shot him a look that could kill.

Greg held his hands up. “Alright. You keep me informed every step of the way. If I need to arrest this bloke, I need facts and evidence.”

“I’ll get you your evidence,” Sherlock said, turning and walking out of the room.

Greg stayed in the background, letting Sherlock and John play detective. A snake bite was a snake bite, and it was very unlikely that it was murder if a snake had done the deed.

John kept Greg informed. Texting to tell him the fiance was weird. That the zoos weren’t missing any snakes. Although the fiance did have a snake, but he also had an alibi.  

 

* * *

 

Sherlock paced up and down Greg’s office. John was at work and Greg was stuck with a frustrated consulting detective. He thought having John around would him get Sherlock off his back when he was in this sort of mood. Apparently not.

“The sister is tired and run down too,” Sherlock said. “It makes no sense, it has to be murder.”

“Are you sure you’re not looking for murder because you’re bored?” Greg asked. “It might just be an illness. And they both have it. Maybe she was more susceptible to it and it killed her?”

“There was an unidentified poison in her bloodstream, remember,” Sherlock said. “Someone killed her. It’s murder, but how?”

“I dunno, Sherlock.”

“I am going to relive her last night,” Sherlock decided. “I’ll text you.”

He left Greg in the same state as he was in when he arrived. Perplexed. 

 

* * *

 

Greg was sat on the sofa that night. Jane was on the other, watching an American series while Greg half-read one of Mycroft’s books, but with every turn of the page, thinking of him instead. Maybe he should just call or ring or drop him an email or something…

Greg’s phone went off. He looked at it.

 

MESSAGES Sherlock Holmes  
9.54pm: Found the murder weapon.  
Poisoned lotion.  
It’s the stepfather. Come arrest  
him. Meet at Bart’s. SH

 

Jane looked up at him as Greg grabbed a jacket. “Going out?” she asked. “You only got back two hours ago.”

“Sherlock’s found the murderer apparently.”

“Oh. In the cigar box case?”

“No. Snake case.”

“Snake?” Jane asked, frowning.

Greg looked at her. “Yeah, y’know. Julia Stoner, brought in with speckles on her body?”

Jane shook her head. “No.”

Greg wavered. “Yeah, look, I’ve gotta go, I’ll explain when I get back, alright?”

Jane just nodded and went back to watching the TV.

Greg picked Sherlock and John up from Bart’s and drove them to Helen Stoner’s house.

The stepdad had created a new bath lotion, mixed with poison. It had killed Julia. It was now killing Helen.

No one answered the door. Greg turned his back as Sherlock picked the lock. They walked through. Sherlock marched into the kitchen. “Oh.”

Greg frowned and followed him. The stepfather had hung himself. “Shit.”

John started looking around. “Any note?”

“What does the note matter?” Sherlock asked. “He obviously did it.”

“Might be able to tell us why he did it,” John said, flicking through some papers on a counter-top. “Only right he explains why he did it.”

“What does it matter why?” Sherlock asked.

“Motive,” John said. “And I expect it would matter to Helen.”

“But… why do you care if it helps Helen?”

Greg rubbed his face and walked out, leaving them to it. He looked out of the living room window. He was exhausted. He could hear them debating the merits of suicide notes and motives and bloody blogs again. He needed a holiday and soon. 

 

* * *

 

_July, 2010_

 

Sender: Watson, John  
Subject: Birthday  
Hello all.  
I was thinking of having a birthday meal at a Chinese place a few roads away from Baker Street on July 7. It would be great if you could all make it. Let me know if you’re coming and I can book a table. All other halves welcome.  
Thanks!  
John.

 

Greg re-read the email. A meal would be good. He forwarded the message to Jane.

 

To: Lestrade, Jane  
Subject: Fwd: Birthday  
Hey love,  
Up for this?  
Greg x

 

Sender: Lestrade, Jane  
Subject: Fwd: Birthday  
How exciting!! Definitely. Xxx

 

Greg emailed John back.

 

To: Watson, John  
Subject: Re: Birthday  
Hi John,  
Me and the wife are up for that.  
Cheers,  
Greg.

 

* * *

 

Greg and Sherlock stood over a body of a homeless man in a street near the London Eye. John was apparently at work. Sherlock was most disgruntled that he hadn’t appeared the moment he’d text him to say they had a case to work on.

“Thoughts?” Greg asked, as Sherlock crouched down beside the body.

“Suicide.”

“You sure?”

“Positive.”

Greg nodded as Sherlock stood up and put his magnifying glass away. “You coming to the do then?” Greg asked.

Sherlock frowned. “What do?”

“John’s birthday meal.”

“Oh. No.”

“Why not?”

“Boring,” Sherlock said, as he began to walk away.

“Hang on, hang on. You’re not going to John’s birthday because it’s boring?”

Sherlock stopped and looked at him. “I’m not going.”

“Well, what are you telling John?”

“I haven’t yet,” Sherlock replied.

“You can’t just not turn up.”

“Why not?”

Greg laughed and shook his head. “Because he’s your flatmate, that’s why not. Just go. You might enjoy yourself.”

“No.”

“Then at least tell him you’re not going.”

“He doesn’t honestly expect me to show up.”

“Yeah, Sherlock. He probably does.” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “C’mon,” Greg said. “Tell me why you’re not going?”

“Too many people.”

Greg nodded. He knew Sherlock struggled with too many thoughts and too many deductions all at once. “Alright. I accept that. Make him a birthday video.”

“What?”

“I’ll come round, with a camera and we’ll make him a birthday video.”

Sherlock laughed. “Don’t be ridiculous. John wouldn’t want a video. Would he?”

Greg shrugged. “Just call it a hunch. In fact, I have a hunch John would like you at the meal.”

“I don’t do hunches,” Sherlock said. “I deal in facts.”

“Fine then,” Greg said. “It’s a fact. John would want you at his birthday.”

“But why?”

“Why? Why would John want you at his birthday?” Greg chuckled and shook his head. “For a brainiac you really are stupid sometimes. Because you’re his mate, you daft sod.”

“I’m not going to the birthday dinner.”

“Then give him a video.”

“Because of your… hunch.”

Greg nodded. “Yes. Because of my hunch. Because I know he’ll appreciate it.”

Sherlock took one last look at the body and began to walk away. “Baker Street at noon tomorrow,” he called back as he left the scene. 

 

* * *

 

And that was how Greg found himself armed with a camera, filming Sherlock. “Hang on a sec,” Greg said, looking at the room through the screen. He turned a light down and pressed the record button.

“Was that supposed to happen?” Sherlock asked. “The light going down? Yeah, okay.” He began to pace around the living room. “Oh, er. So what do I… What d’you want me to do at the end?” He looked at Greg.

Greg shook his head and shrugged.

“Shall I um… smile and wink?” Sherlock asked. “I do that sometimes. I’ve no idea why. People seem to like it. Humanises me.”

“Fine,” Greg said. “Whatever.”

“Why am I doing this again?”

Greg rolled his eyes. “You’re gonna miss the dinner.”

“Of course I’m going to miss dinner, there will be people.” He began to walk away and then turned back. “How can John be having a birthday diner? All his friends hate him. You only have to look at their faces. I wrote an essay on suppressed hatred in close proximity based entirely on his friends. On reflection, it probably wasn’t a very good choice of gift.” Sherlock glanced at the camera and then at Greg. “What was my excuse again?”

“You said you had a thing,” Greg reminded him.

“Ah, right, yes! That’s right. A thing.”

“You might wanna elaborate.”

“No, no, no. Only lies have detail.” Greg sighed. He knew that alright. He felt like all he’d heard in his and Jane’s flat for months were detailed lies.

‘I’m out with my sister, because she’s had a row with her husband and her kids are driving them crazy and there’s a new pub and this and this…’

‘And I only took my wedding ring off because we were planting cress, and I didn’t want to get it dirty or leave it at school because it might get stolen, so I took it off and left it here…’

Sherlock frowned at Greg. “Right, I just. I need a moment to, um, figure out what I’m going to do.” He walked towards the window. “Okay,” he finally said. He sat down in the armchair. “Okay, I’m ready now.”

He looked directly into the camera. “Hello, John. I’m sorry I’m not there at the moment. I’m very busy. However, many happy returns. Oh, and don’t worry. I’m going to be with you again very soon.” The smile fell from Sherlock’s face. “Is that it? Are we done?”

“If you want that to be it,” Greg said. “But it is John’s birthday.”

“It’s just a birthday,” Sherlock said. “He’s had plenty of birthdays before.”

“Yeah, but…” Greg sighed and turned the camera off. “It’s just a thing some people do sometimes. Celebrate. Have friends over and have a nice time.”

Sherlock frowned. “But why would he want me there?”

Greg just shook his head. “You have to figure that out for yourself, mate. Not my place. Just know that he does.” Greg looked at his watch. “Right, I’ve got to get back to work. I’ll edit this down and put it on a disk. Do you want to give it to him?”

“No. Yes. Should I?”

Greg nodded. “I’ll drop it round and then you can give it to him.”

“Fine,” Sherlock said.

Greg smiled at him. That evening, he edited the video down to the minuscule clip and burned it to a CD. He showed it to Jane, who laughed and said Sherlock looked so much older somehow now.

Greg made a copy of the whole video for himself. Just to keep as blackmail material or something. 

 

* * *

 

 On the evening of John’s birthday, Jane had been out all afternoon. Greg met her at 7pm outside the restaurant. She smiled at him, and he took her hand as they walked into the restaurant. He spotted John standing by a table, talking to someone Greg was sure he recognised from Bart’s.

He grinned and waved at John as the man caught his eye and they both walked over. “John Watson, this is my wife, Jane.”

They both smiled and said hello to each other. “This is Mike Stamford,” John said, nodding to the man on his right. “We were at Bart’s together.”

Greg shook his hand. “Hi, nice to meet you.”

“Happy birthday by the way, John,” Jane said, taking a card out of her handbag. “A shame Sherlock couldn’t make it,” she said.

“Is it?” John joked, opening the envelope. He looked in the card and pocketed the £20 note. “Cheers for this. Really nice of you.”

Jane laughed. “No worries. Is living with Sherlock as much of a nightmare as I imagine?”

“Sometimes worse,” John conceded. “But he keeps me busy.”

Greg laughed and looked up as Molly shuffled over. “Hello,” she said smiling shyly.

“This is Molly,” Greg told Jane. “She works at Bart’s. Molly, this is Jane.”

Jane immediately turned to her, asking her where she’d got her shoes from. Greg grinned at John. “There’s a conversation I can’t take part in. Shall I just grab a seat?”

“Yeah, good idea,” John said. “We’ll be standing all night at this rate.”

Greg pulled a seat out and sat down, John opposite him. Jane took her own seat beside Greg, with Molly next to her, still both deep in discussion about shoes. Mrs Hudson was there too, on a date with a man who introduced himself as Mr Chatterjee. A few of John’s rugby friends also came along. Sherlock was a notable absentee.

“A shame Sherlock couldn’t make it,” Molly said. “What was it he’s doing again?”

“He has a thing,” John informed them.

Greg laughed and rolled his eyes and shared a menu with Jane. They all ordered some drinks and Jane turned back to Molly, where they talked about their pets and looked at photos of Louis and Molly’s cat on their phones.

“So, Mike. Football fan?” Greg asked.

“I like to watch it, sure,” Mike Stamford said. “Manchester United.”

Greg laughed. “Arsenal for me.”

Jane poured her and Greg’s wine out. “Football again?” she groaned, elbowing Greg playfully. “Us ladies will have a civilised conversation at this end of the table shall we?”

Greg laughed. “Yeah, pretty much. So, what do you do, Mike?”

“I’m a teacher at Bart’s. Used to train there, the same time as John.”

“D’you know Sherlock?” Greg asked.

“Yeah, he used to barge in and tell me I was teaching it wrong.”

Greg laughed. “I’m so glad it’s not just me.”

“Oh no, it’s never just you,” Mike said, smiling. “What do you do?”

“DI at the Met.”

“Oh, so you’re the officer Sherlock and John do all the cases for.”

“We don’t do all his cases,” John cut in. “Lestrade’s a really good officer.”

Greg grinned. “Cheers, John. At least one out of you and Sherlock think that. Oh. Reminds me. Did you see the video?”

John nodded. “I’m amazed you managed to get him to do that much.”

“That’s the benefit of knowing him so long. I’ve worked out how to handle him.”

Molly laughed. “How’s that?” she asked.

“A lot of pandering to his ego. John’s the expert at that.” Greg grinned at him. John shook his head but laughed anyway. “And then when he’s being an idiot, I tell him so and bark at him. It’s treating him a bit like a child, I’ll admit, but it gets the job done.”

Two waitresses began to bring over their meals.

“Sometimes I think I’m more of an expert in Sherlock Holmes than I am in anything else,” Greg admitted. “Then of course, he walks in and I realise I’m not an expert in anything, including Sherlock Holmes.”

John laughed. “Well, he lets you bark at him, which is more than he’d tolerate from most people.”

“He doesn’t exactly have a choice if he wants to work my cases. Which he obviously does.”

They began tucking into their food.

“I read your blog, John,” Jane said as she took a prawn cracker. “It’s fascinating. It’s lovely to get a bit of an insight into Greg’s work too.”

“Cheers,” John said. “Always nice to get good reviews.”

“I read Sherlock’s too. Though I notice he’s deleted his analysis on tobacco ash.”

John laughed. “No one was reading it.”

“He had a hissy fit,” Greg grinned, but then found he felt bad insulting him without him there to fight back. “Doesn’t feel right eating without him.”

“I’m sure he’s doing something very important,” Jane said. “Mike. I recognise you from somewhere.”

“My wife probably,” Mike said. “She seems to know everyone.”

“What does she do?”

“She’s a local councillor. And school governor.”

“Which school?”

“Hartwell.”

Jane smiled across at him. “Small world. That’s where I work. She’s a governor? You have children there?”

“Two,” Mike said proudly.

Jane smiled. “What years?”

“Two and four.”

“I teach year three, I might have taught your oldest then.”

“Jack?” Mike asked. “Jack Stamford.”

Jane laughed. “Oh gosh, it is a small world. Lovely little chap. Fantastic keyboard player.”

Mike positively beamed. Greg glanced at Jane and smiled. Just as she had relaxed Molly with shoe compliments, she’d done the same now. She was outstanding in a setting with lots of people. A real social butterfly. Greg glanced down at his food. A butterfly who never found a place to settle, his dad had described her once. Jane had managed two perfect conversations with people she’d never met, yet her and Greg had hardly had a proper chat in months…

“So, Molly,” Jane said. “How long have you known Greg?”

“Quite a while,” Molly replied. “I was just an intern at Bart’s. Sherlock was already working there I think. Well. Volunteering.” Molly smiled and took a long drink from her wine. “He’s really amazing.”

“I’ve only had the pleasure of his company a few times,” Jane said.

“Where did you and Greg meet?” Molly asked.

“At his ex wife’s wedding.”

Greg laughed at the memory. He picked up a few more items from the platter in the centre of the table to load his plate up with, as Jane began to talk about their own wedding and honeymoon. John was discussing rugby with a few of his other friends. Greg half listened to each conversation.

Every time he tuned in to hear Jane enthusing about how they met and the dates they’d been on, and how Molly really should visit a particular park where they held a music event every year, Greg felt as though he was listening to her talk about another couple.

“About six months ago we went to this late-night museum opening,” Jane was explaining. “My sister had the tickets, but she was poorly so gave them to me. We both thought it would be really boring, but they had all these acting people. D’you remember, Greg?”

“I was at work,” he said. “I couldn’t go.”

Jane glanced at him and frowned. “But I.” She looked down at her food and then back at Greg. They stared at each other. “I must have been confusing it with some other thing,” Jane finally said.

“Yeah,” Greg said, nodding. Or some other man. They didn’t speak to each other much throughout the rest of the meal. Jane spoke to Molly and Mrs Hudson while Greg listened to conversations about sport and John’s blog and Mike’s children.

After paying the bill, Jane was avoiding his eyes. Greg collected his wallet.

“Do you want to come back to Baker Street for a drink?” John asked, looking across at Greg.

Greg glanced at Jane. “I’m up for that. Love?”

Jane looked up from her conversation with Molly. “Sorry, I missed that.”

“Go over to Baker Street for drinks.”

“Um. I’m pretty tired.”

“Just the one?” Greg asked.

Jane nodded. “Oh go on then.”

John invited Molly to come too, and 20 minutes later, the four of them left together for the five minute walk to Baker Street. Jane and Greg were lagging behind. “Poor Molly,” Jane said. “She’s completely in love with Sherlock.”

“I know,” Greg said.

“Greg… Sherlock’s not going to be around is he?”

“Doubt it,” Greg said as he followed John and Molly into 221b. “He wanted to avoid the party, I don’t expect he’ll be back yet.”

As they walked up the stairs, Greg heard John’s voice. “Oh, so you’re back.”

Greg reached the top of the stairs and followed John in. “What are you all doing here?” Sherlock asked.

“I invited them here,” John said as he opened - and then rather swiftly closed - the fridge door.

“Why?” Sherlock asked irritably.

“To have a drink.”

“You can do that anywhere. Why here?”

“Because it’s my flat too, Sherlock. Anyway, I thought you were busy?”

“I was.”

“How was it?” Greg asked him. “The thing you had on.”

Sherlock glared at him. “Fine.” He stood up and walked past Jane on his way to his bedroom. He stopped abruptly and looked at her. “Who did you sit next to at the dinner?” he asked.

“Greg and Molly,” she said, staring at him.

Sherlock turned to Greg. “Lestrade. Ever considered choosing a wife who won’t cheat on you?”

Molly let out a soft gasp and then a deathly silence fell over the room.

“Sherlock!” John finally exclaimed, before turning to Jane and Greg. “Ignore him, he’s just being… Sherlock.”

“It’s fine,” Greg managed, glaring at Sherlock. 

“Greg,” Jane whispered. “Maybe we should… should go and-”

“-No. I came here for a drink. I’m having a bloody drink.”

“Greg-” Jane murmured.

“No. John, what are we having?”

John looked between Greg and Jane and then turned and picked up a bottle of wine from the side. Molly rushed over to him and started helping him retrieve glasses. Sherlock stalked into his bedroom. Jane sunk into a chair. “A really big glass please,” Jane said, staring at her knees.

Greg walked to the window. He looked outside. It was almost dark now. And the state of his marriage was out there, in the open, shared among his friends. He felt numb. He turned as Molly handed him a glass of wine, her eyes wide and unsure. Greg forced a smile at her.

Molly sat down on the sofa, putting a cushion on her lap. Greg had a long swig of his wine. He felt awful. It was John’s birthday, and they were ruining it all. He drank his wine quickly, while Molly and John made awkward conversations about dead bodies and autopsies. Finally, Greg turned to Jane. She glanced up at him and then shifted her gaze.

“We should go,” Greg said.

She nodded and stood up. “Sorry, John,” she said. “Happy birthday.”

“Thanks. Yeah. I… I’m sorry for Sherlock,” John said.

Jane managed a sad smile. “Don’t worry. You’re not the one who needs to apologise. Nice you meet you both.” She walked out of the flat. Greg nodded at John and Molly and followed her out. “Greg…” Jane started when they left the building.

Greg called for a taxi. “Not here.”

They travelled in silence. Greg tried desperately to decide what he wanted to do and what he should say. Eventually they arrived at the flat and Greg got a beer out of the fridge. Jane sat on the sofa, Louis on her lap. Greg walked out and looked at her.

“Did you already know?” Jane asked him.

Greg nodded. “Yeah.”

“How long have you known?”

“Since May.”

Jane stared at him. “May? And you never thought to confront me?”

“No.”

“How… how did you know?”

“Doesn’t matter, does it?” Greg had a gulp of beer. “How many men?”

“Greg-”

“How many?”

“Three. Three.” Greg turned away from her and looked out of the window. “Greg I… there’s no excuse.”

He watched a car drive past. “You’re right there,” he muttered.

“But don’t tell me it was just me. Don’t make me feel guilty, because I know you’ve done the same.”

He swung around to look at her. “Excuse me?”

“You. Cheating on me. It goes both ways.”

He managed a sardonic laugh. “No it bloody well doesn’t. I have never once been with someone else while we’ve been together.”

“Not… not even… not even him?”

“Who exactly?” he asked, though he knew perfectly well who she meant. As though falling asleep with Mycroft in his arms _one time_ ever compared to the three men she’d been with.

“Mycroft.”

“No, Jane. I never did anything with Mycroft. I have been bloody loyal to you. I would never, ever cheat on you, so don’t fucking try to accuse me of it to make you feel better.”

She pressed her lips together. “You never…”

“No. I never did.”

“I still love you,” she said, as she wiped back a tear. He turned back to the window. Silence fell over them for a few moments. “Greg talk to me.”

He didn’t turn from the window. “I can’t. I can’t do this, Jane. I. I’ve tried to keep it quiet because I was too afraid to lose you, but every single one of my friends thinks I’m a fucking joke. They’ll think I’m an idiot if I just forgive you. And I can’t forgive you. I’ve tried for the past two months. But this will keep happening. We need some time apart.”

“Time? How much time?”

“I dunno. I don’t know. But I can’t see you right now.”

“Are… are you divorcing me?”

He turned to look at her. He loved her once. He wasn’t sure what they were to each other anymore. “I don’t know yet. But I can’t live like this. I need some time to clear my head.”

“I love you.”

“Not enough. You never told me how you were feeling.”

She stared at him. “How could I? You’re never here!”

“Neither are you!” he raged. “You’re gallivanting across London, lying to me about who you’re with.”

She pushed Louis off her lap and stood up. “And you’re running off with a Holmes every day, so I guess we’re even!”

“Even? Don’t talk to me about even. This isn’t a contest. This is our relationship.”

“And we have buggered it up royally.”

“Don’t say _we_ ,” Greg said. “Not me. I was loyal to you. I am loyal to you, Jane.”

“So what are we doing?”

“I can’t be with you right now.”

She wiped her eyes. “I’ll go and stay with my sister. Move back to Dorset for a while, once the school holidays start.”

“Good. That would be good.”

“Greg-”

“Don’t. I’m going to sleep on the sofa tonight.”

“Maybe… we can talk and…”

“No. I can’t do it.”

“Don’t you think maybe that’s the problem? We don’t talk.”

Greg nodded. “Yeah, it is. But I don’t want to talk to you right now. I can’t even look at you right now.”

“I’m sorry,” she said quietly. Greg turned back to the window. Jane let out a shaky breath and walked to the bedroom, closing the door behind her.

 

* * *

 

Greg heard her packing the next morning. He lay on the sofa under a blanket. When she left with Louis, she didn’t say a word.

The silence she left behind was deafening. 


	47. End Of The World News

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome new readers, and a special thank you to the following for sticking with this fic for so blimming long. Mice, WhiskeySally, psychicdreams, ahutchga1972, JustLookFrightenedAndScuttle, cosmicsoup221b, maliciouspixie, ladyxdarcy, artemisdecibal, KingTaran, CommunionNimrod, MoonRiver, Maethoriel_Raina, Novels, Gaffsie, Queenoftheuniverse, TorchWhoLockian_Potterhead, Jaeh, Kaci, Jill, Spooky831, theconsultinghobbit, Dravni, LightDarkPheonix, Per_Solem, ivefoundmygoldfish (melonpanparade).  
> Have a fab weekend! :D

_July, 2010_

The first day after Jane left, Greg didn’t really notice it. He went to work even though it was supposed to be a day off. He kept his wedding ring on. He didn’t want anyone to ask about it.

As the days and then weeks went on, it got easier to forget. He had lived alone in the flat before, and he was surprised by how easily he adjusted to it. He and Jane didn’t contact one another. It was simpler that way.

 

* * *

 

There had been a Flyaway Airways plane which had crashed in Dusseldorf. No one survived. It was a suspected terrorist bomb, according to the news.

But then there was the body in Southwark. A John Coniston. He was supposed to have been on the plane. Greg took Sherlock and John there, grateful for the distraction.

“Any ideas?” Greg asked, as Sherlock examined the man’s hand.

“Eight, so far,” he said. He straightened up, frowning. “Okay, four ideas.” He glanced at Greg and then at the evidence bag he was holding. “Maybe two ideas.”

Within 10 minutes, it was down to no ideas. No idea at all. Sherlock had no clue.

Greg and John stared at him from across the car park, both leaning against Greg’s car. “He alright?” Greg asked, as Sherlock studied the body again.

“He doesn’t like not knowing,” John said. He glanced at Greg. “I haven’t had time to ask. How are you doing?”

Greg shrugged. “I’m fine.”

“Is Jane…?”

“We’re having a break,” Greg said.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. Look, I knew about it already, before Sherlock shot his mouth off.” Greg pulled a face. “Y’know, can we not talk about this?”

“Course.”

They looked back at Sherlock. “How’s he doing?” Greg asked.

“Good. He’s Sherlock.”

Greg nodded. “Yeah.” Sherlock threw his hands up in the air and slammed the car door shut. Greg grinned and looked at John. “He’s not looking too impressed right now though.”

John groaned. “And I have to live with it.”

Greg grinned and patted his shoulder. “Tough luck, mate.”

 

* * *

 

Sam Brockhurst was sitting on his desk when Greg got back from lunch, his feet on his chair as he read a newspaper. Greg frowned at him. “What on earth are you doing?”

“Reading,” Sam said.

“Where’s everyone else?”

“Got a body. Likely suicide case. John Watson’s blog’s got a mention in the Metro. Did you read it?”

“Nah, I didn’t.” Greg walked over. “What is it?”

“They have this section with Tweets-”

“Tweets?”

Sam rolled his eyes. “You know? Twitter. Everyone’s on Twitter. You’re not on Twitter?”

“No. Is it like Facebook?”

Sam sighed and shook his head. “God, I forget how old you are, boss.”

“Oi!”

Sam ignored him. “It’s a Tweet from one of the Metro journalists.”

Greg looked over his shoulder to read the page.

 

_@metrolorraine: Found a fun new blog! Crime scene solvers, Google John Watson &SherlockHolmes! #Rec #SherlockHolmesisagenius_

 

“Sherlock Holmes is a genius?” Greg read. “What the hell is that?”

“It’s a hashtag.”

Greg nodded slowly. “Right. Yeah.” He frowned. “So. So, what does this mean?”

“They’re getting famous,” Sam said. “Trending and stuff.”

“Trending?” Sam opened his mouth to speak and Greg handed him back the paper. “Don’t explain,” Greg said. “I’d rather be oblivious.”

The next week, there was another report, this time in the Evening Standard. Sally brought it in for him, and Greg read it with a frown. “Why are people so interested in John’s blog all of a sudden?” he asked. “I mean, they don’t even know him. And no offence to John, but it doesn’t exactly do justice to Sherlock does it?”

“Mm,” Sally responded distractedly while she signed some paperwork.

“I mean… did you read this, Sal? ‘The hashtag “#Sherlock” trended for half an hour after Watson’s most recent blog post titled The Speckled Blonde’. It all reads like gibberish. I thought this was meant to be a newspaper?”

 _But who is the mysterious Sherlock Holmes?_ the article read. _Some Tweeters think he’s an ex-policeman. Others believe he really is a genius. Some say it’s all a hoax and a figment of John Watson’s imagination._

Greg pulled a face. “What does it matter? This isn’t exactly news, is it?” He threw the paper away.

Over the next few weeks, Sam began emailing Greg links to web articles proclaiming the dawn of the private detective.

_‘Got a mystery to solve? Ask Sherlock Holmes for the answer. But don’t expect him to be polite!’_

_‘EXCLUSIVE: The truth behind Sherlock Holmes?’_

_‘Sherlock Holmes: The man, the myth, the mystery’._

_‘#Sherlock - is it real or just a lie?’_

_‘Private detectives: the truth behind the stories’._

Greg just shook his head at them all. “It’s just ridiculous. Who’s reading this stuff?”

“That article got nearly 10,000 retweets,” Sam said. “John’s even got a parody account on Twitter.”

“I don’t even know half of what you just said, Brockhurst.”

Sam just laughed.

 

* * *

 

  _August, 2010_

Then the print media got even more interested.

“I was followed by a photographer,” Sherlock snarled as he stood with Molly and Greg in the Bart’s morgue. “I had to take the long route here.”

“I read about you in Hello! Magazine this morning,” Molly said.

“And there was a bit in The Daily Mail,” Greg informed him. “Not a very nice bit actually.”

“I don’t care,” Sherlock said. “I only care about the work.”

Molly and Greg exchanged a look. “Not sure you’re gonna be anonymous forever,” Greg told him. “Not while John keeps posting stuff on the blog.”

“Pathetic,” Sherlock murmured. 

 

* * *

 

An actor was killed live on stage, in the middle of a show in the Strand.

Sherlock solved it. Of course he did. And he summoned - actually summoned - Greg and his team to the theatre to carry out the arrest.

Somewhere along the line, photographers and journalists had lined the pavement outside the stage door. “There’s a lot of press outside, guys,” Greg told them as they walked past him.

“Well, they won’t be interested in us,” Sherlock said.

“Yeah, that was before you were an internet phenomenon. A couple of them specifically wanted photographs of you two.”

“For God’s sake!” Sherlock exclaimed.

“Still, it’s good for the public image, a big case like this,” Greg said as Sherlock and John walked out.

“I’m a private detective,” Sherlock said. “The last thing I need is a public image."

 

* * *

 

Sally walked into Greg’s office the next morning with a heap of newspapers.

_Hat-man and Robin: The web detectives._

_Sherlock & John: Blogger detectives._

_Sherlock Holmes: net phenomenon._

Greg frowned as he read the first one.

_Since moving in together, the pair of confirmed bachelors have helped bumbling police chiefs with a number of high-profile cases. From a killer psycho taxi driver to the murder of People’s Presenter Connie Prince, they've often succeeded where the Met has failed._

He sneered at it. “Bumbling police chiefs? _Bumbling_ police chiefs?” He carried on reading.

_An explosion which claimed lives of six people was blamed, by the authorities, on a gas leak. John sensationally revealed on his blog that the devastation was actually caused by a mad terrorist bomber known as Jim Moriarty. Links between Moriarty and Al-Qaeda have yet to be ruled out. It appears that Sherlock and John are untouchable - feared by the police and criminals alike. But for how long can this be the case?_

Greg looked up at Sally. “Not good, is it?” he said.

She shook her head. “And I thought he made us look like idiots when all he was doing was texting ‘wrong’ to the press.”

Greg re-read it. Links between Moriarty and Al-Qaeda, for God’s sake? When Sally left the room, he opened his email.

 

To: Holmes, Mycroft  
Subject: Your brother - who else?  
Hi Mycroft,  
Sorry I’ve not been in touch. Just thought you should take a look at the press and what they’re saying about John’s blog. Worth keeping an eye on, if you’re not already.  
Text me when you’re free sometime, yeah?  
Cheers,  
Greg

 

While the press coverage was bothering him, Greg didn’t know where he’d be without Sherlock - and this time not because of his great crime-solving skills. What had his life become if Sherlock was vitally important to keeping him sane? Once upon a time, Sherlock was the one who might have been running through his life and into self-destruction without Greg there to take away the syringes.

Now Greg needed Sherlock to keep him occupied with cases, his fast-speaking and an unsaid reminder not to go back to cigarettes because they’d made a deal.

Greg dreamed of Mycroft. He imagined them running away from something outside, and returning to his flat to escape. They had sex against the wall. Sometimes Mycroft had him from behind on the bed. Other times, Greg dreamed they were face to face. He always woke up alone.

He worked longer and harder than before. When he first married Jane, he’d made an effort to spend more time at home, but there was nothing there for him now. He took cases home. He did paperwork on his days off. He ran himself ragged, because there was nothing to distract him.

He considered contacting Mycroft. He called once, but it went straight to voicemail, and he couldn’t think of a single thing to say. Mycroft had been his best friend. And now they’d not been in contact for three months.

Greg sighed as he looked down at the body with Sherlock.

“Mycroft’s away.”

Greg frowned and looked over at Sherlock. “What?”

“Mycroft,” Sherlock said. “He’s away. He’s been abroad since the beginning of July.”

“Why the hell are you telling me that?” Greg snapped.

“Thought you’d want to know.”

Greg sighed. “Sorry, Sherlock.”

“And I try being nice,” Sherlock muttered.

“Caught me by surprise, I admit,” Greg said.

“As much as the thought of the two of you together repulses me, I thought it might stop you moping.” Sherlock shrugged and turned back to the body. “You’re looking for a woman with multi-coloured nail polish.”

Greg nodded. “Alright. When’s he back?”

“Hard to know. Stop thinking about Mycroft now, it’s disturbing.”

Greg managed a smile. “Deal. Right, so, nail polish? What colour?”

 

* * *

 

  _September, 2010_

In September, Greg loaned Sherlock out. He hadn’t done it much before - just once or twice, with Gregson. But he loaned Sherlock out to Carter. The case was a mystery, or so Greg had heard. Who better to deal with a mystery death than Sherlock Holmes?

It occurred to him, not for the first time, that he was putting more faith and trust in Sherlock than ever before. He put the phone down on Carter and looked at his computer screen. He’d spent the past three days trying to write his report for the theatre murder. The Aluminium Crutch, John had called it.

But Greg had to write a logical, legal report he could file away to be seen by his superiors. Superiors who may have read the papers and seen the details of the case as outlined by Doctor Watson.

He rubbed his face. He looked up at the knock on his door. A slow smile spread over his face as Mycroft walked in, wearing a black suit and yellow tie. “Alright, stranger?” Greg grinned.

“Yes, well, thank you.” Mycroft closed the door behind him and studied Greg for a moment. “I’m sorry I haven’t been around. Are you alright?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. And no worries, you’re busy.”

Mycroft took a seat and nodded. He had dark circles under his eyes. “You’re working too hard,” Mycroft said.

Greg smiled. There was a pot kettle black situation, if ever there was one. “It’s a good distraction,” he said instead.

“Are you sure you’re alright?”

Greg smiled. “I’m fine. Thanks though.”

“I’m afraid this isn’t a social visit. Is this conversation between the two of us?”

“Of course it is.”

Mycroft nodded. “I’m trying to draw Moriarty out.”

“Draw him out? Out where?”

“Into revealing himself to Sherlock and John again.”

Greg raised his eyebrows. “Because that went so well when they both nearly got blown up last time.”

“It won’t get to that.”

“So, why are you telling me this?”

“I need you to keep your ear to the ground. Anything peculiar, any rumours of explosions or messages for Sherlock, I need to know about it.”

“I take it you don’t trust Sherlock to tell you himself.”

“Not at all.”

Greg pressed his lips together thoughtfully. “He won’t talk to me. Not if he knows everything he’s saying is going back to you.”

“It’s a risk I’m willing to take.”

Greg looked across at him. “Alright. If I hear anything, I’ll tell you.”

“Thank you.”

“They’re linking Moriarty to Al-Qaeda I the press. That’s not true, is it?”

“No,” Mycroft said. “Nonetheless, I’m not quashing the rumours. If a member of the general public hears the name Moriarty and has some information, they are more likely to tell the police if they believe he has links to a major terrorist organisation.”

“Makes sense to me.”

Mycroft stood up. “Thank you for your cooperation, Greg. It’s appreciated.” He started for the door and turned around. “I’m sorry I’ve not been around. I was sorry to hear of your separation from your wife.”

“It’s fine.”

“We will have dinner,” Mycroft said. “Sometime soon. This business with Moriarty is taking up an alarming amount of my time.”

“Hey, it’s alright.” Greg smiled at him. “I know how it is. You don’t… don’t owe me anything. I know you’d call if you were free.”

Mycroft nodded his head. “I’ll be in touch.” He reached for the door handle.

“Hey, Mycroft?”

“Yes?”

“You’ll still come here yourself, right? If you need to take anything off me.”

“When I can, I always will.”

Greg smiled at him and watched him go. He bit his lip. He wondered if perhaps he should have tried to cement a date for dinner. But Mycroft looked so worn out, he thought the man needed to sleep for a week rather than spend a night practically collapsing into a decent steak.

He pulled a face when he thought about his empty flat. No doubt that Mycroft could fill a void for a while, if Greg asked. After their night on the sofa in May, Greg was sure if he kissed Mycroft, the man would kiss him back. But maybe it was best not to even go there. Not when Greg was so sure all they’d manage together was sex. And what then? He’d be in the same position he was now. Still alone. Only if he fell for Mycroft again, he didn’t think he’d ever be able to claw his way back out.

 

* * *

 

 Reports of gunshots later that day forced Greg out of daydreaming. It wasn’t really in his remit to drive to an area of London where someone might be armed, so it was left to Dimmock’s team to deal with, all wearing bullet-proof vests as they investigated.

They’d found Sherlock and John there, Sherlock unconscious and apparently drugged. And Sherlock Holmes certainly was in Greg’s remit.

He drove to the scene. “What happened to him?” Greg asked John as they both struggled with carrying an unconscious Sherlock to the car. “Should we not be getting him to a hospital or something?”

“I think he’s fine,” John said. “All his vitals are normal.”

“So what the hell happened?” Greg asked as they closed the back doors and got into the front to drive to Baker Street.

“I got a call to go to Buckingham Palace where we met up with Mycroft. We had a new client, and we had to go to this woman Irene Adler’s house-”

“-Irene Adler? Heard of her. Something to do with shagging around with some famous bloke right?”

“Yeah, I think so. So, we went to her place to get the pictures. And these American blokes came in with guns and… well, I guess Dimmock’s team are investigating that now.”

Greg shook his head. “It’s coming to me. I put a special request in to have it transferred. If you and Sherlock are involved, I’m taking it, I’m not letting anyone else get involved with something like this. I’ve got Anderson and Donovan on their way to the scene now.”

“That’s good,” John said. “The Adler woman drugged him.”

Greg shook his head. “How the hell do the two of you get involved in all this stuff?”

“This time it was Mycroft’s fault.”

“Mycroft,” Greg repeated. “He has a habit of getting people involved in things they’re not sure about, does Mycroft. I only saw the bloke first thing this morning. You were at Buckingham Palace?”

John glanced at him. “Yeah. Sherlock went dressed in a sheet.”

Greg laughed. “Jesus. I would have paid good money to see Mycroft’s face when he saw that.”

John laughed. “He wasn’t impressed.”

“No, I bet. Typical Sherlock.”

They pulled up outside of Baker Street and Greg helped John take Sherlock up the stairs and put him into bed. Sherlock was muttering about backfiring cars and boomerangs, but he wasn’t making much sense at all.

“So, I take it he’s going to be alright?” Greg said, looking at him. He pulled his phone out and scrolled through until he found the video function. He was going to record this. Add it to his collection of embarrassing Sherlock videos for the next time the man was driving him up the wall. The time Sherlock was out-witted by a dominatrix. Brilliant.

“He’ll be fine, once he sleeps it off.”

“Keep an eye on him,” Greg said. “Text me if you need anything.” He ended the recording. He answered his phone as it began to ring. “Lestrade.”

“Hi, it’s Sally.”

“What’s up?”

“We’ve just got back to the Yard, and some blokes in suits are trying to take our files from the shooting. I’m refusing until I get clearance from you.”

“Mycroft there?” Greg asked.

“No.”

Greg nodded. “Alright. I’m going to come over now, don’t give them anything until I get there.”

“They’re MI5.”

“Is there a woman there?” Greg asked. “Brown hair, good looking, looks like she’s surgically-attached to a Blackberry?”

“No.”

“Then don’t give them a damn thing. I’ll be there in…” Greg checked his watch. “Give me 20 minutes. I’m sure Sam can ad-lib a million reasons why we won’t give them the paperwork in that time.” Greg hung up the phone. “Gotta go,” he said to John.

“Thanks for your help,” John said.

“No worries.” Greg took one last quick look at Sherlock. “Stupid bugger,” he murmured affectionately before leaving the flat and heading back to the Yard.

He found a frosty stand-off taking place in his office when he got there, Sam sat at Greg’s desk with a pile of crime scene photos and documents under his arse, Sally with her arms crossed. Two MI5 men were stood in their smart suits, threatening them with arrest or some anti-terrorist legislation.

Greg listened to them from outside the door for a minute before walking in. “Alright, break it up, children,” he said. “What do you want?”

“Are you Detective Inspector Lestrade?” a man asked.

“I am.”

“Then you are instructed to hand over any document relating to today’s shooting.”

“Instructed by who?”

“Not important,” the man said. “But we have jurisdiction.”

“According to who?” Greg asked.

The man showed him a piece of paper. It was signed by Mycroft Holmes. Greg frowned. “Where the hell is he?”

“Who?”

“Mycroft.” Greg looked outside the office. Mycroft and Anthea were no where to be seen. Greg turned back to the men from MI5. “If he wants this, he knows he’s got to come himself.”

“Mycroft is a very busy man.”

“To hell with him being busy,” Greg said. “We have a deal. He wants this stuff, he comes and gets it himself. No offence, but he doesn’t send his underlings to do his dealings with me. That’s not how we work.”

“This isn’t a negotiation,” the man said. “We have been sent for the files and we’re not leaving until we get them.”

Greg took his phone out of his pocket. He rang Mycroft’s number. It called six times, before it was finally answered, but not by the man in question. “Mycroft Holmes’ phone,” a woman’s voice said. “Anthea Boyette speaking.”

Greg frowned. “It’s Lestrade. Where is he?”

“Unavailable.”

“I’ve got blokes in my office telling me they need my files.”

“Yes.”

“Where is he?”

“Unavailable.”

“Like hell he is. Anthea, me and him have a deal. Hell, we only spoke about it this morning for God’s sake.”

“Mr Holmes is unavailable.”

Greg pressed his lips together. “Is he alright?”

“Fine. But unavailable. Hand over your paperwork, Detective Inspector.”

Greg growled. “Fine. But you tell him I’m going to… I’m gonna… God, I don’t know what I’m going to do when I next see him, but you let him know I’m not impressed.”

“Of course.” Anthea hung up.

Greg rolled his eyes and shrugged. “Brockhurst, give them the papers.” Sam frowned but stood up, taking the paperwork off the seat he had been sitting on and handing it over. “And you can tell Mycroft Holmes I’m not impressed as well,” Greg told the men from MI5. “Make sure he gets that message loud and clear.”

They didn’t say a word as they turned and left. For Greg, their deal worked both ways. And if Mycroft wasn’t going to hold up his end, then Greg wasn’t going to hold up his to act like some sort of spy for Sherlock and John. And anyway. It wasn’t like he cared. Mycroft could do whatever he wanted. He didn’t owe Greg anything. And Greg didn’t owe him either. Mycroft said that in an email once. You will never owe me anything. Greg never understood what exactly he’d meant or was implying by that so he thought about it occasionally.

But if that’s what it was - no favours, no deals, no arrangements - then that was easily dealt with.

Because Greg didn’t need Mycroft’s permission or orders to do anything. And he really didn’t need Mycroft for anything at all. 

 

* * *

 

 Jane text him. She asked if she could pop around the flat in the afternoon to grab some stuff. She was back in London then. Greg said yes. She wasn’t there when he got home in the evening. The wardrobe was left with only Greg’s clothes inside it. 

 

* * *

 

_October, 2010_

Greg sent Mycroft a card and a miniature James Bond car for his birthday. They hadn’t spoken since the Adler debacle and the subsequent file theft, but the the date of his birthday was firmly imprinted in Greg’s mind, and he wasn’t going to let it go past without some sort of acknowledgement.

It wasn’t that he was thinking about Mycroft. No. Not at all. But he remembered him in October, that was all.

He hated himself a little bit when he wrapped his hand around his cock and came imagining Mycroft’s mouth around him that night. He slipped into an easy sleep and woke dreaming that Mycroft was fucking him so hard into the mattress that he saw stars.

Mycroft sent him an email. It didn’t say much, just ‘thank you for the gift. My office is acquiring quite an eclectic assortment of presents from you. Thank you. Kindest regards, Mycroft Holmes’. 

 

* * *

 

 Greg wasn’t having a good day. Anderson was on holiday, and Greg never really appreciated just how good and thorough Anderson was at his job until he wasn’t there. Even Sherlock, who never got on with the man, was groaning at the incompetence of those sent to a crime scene to replace him.

And so Sherlock wasn’t having a good day either. And if Sherlock wasn’t having a good day, then John certainly wasn’t because he had to put up with him both at ‘work’ (if the crime scene counted as work) and then again at Baker Street.

“I can’t do it anymore,” John muttered irritably, as Sherlock flung his hands in the air in exasperation on the other side of the road. “I can’t live with him, he’s driving me crazy. He’s insane when he’s working, and even worse when he’s not.”

“Good job he’s working then,” Greg said.

John grinned. “Tell me Anderson’s back soon? Wow, there’s a sentence I never thought I’d say.”

“He’s back soon,” Greg told him. “Next Monday. Thank God.”

John watched Sherlock. “I could do with avoiding the flat for a bit when he’s in this mood. Fancy going to the pub?”

Greg glanced at him. He and John? Go to the pub? Together as… mates? That was an interesting thought he’d not really considered before. Greg always thought John was Sherlock’s friend, not really his. And anyway, would that not be a bit strange for Sherlock? But Greg nodded and said ‘sure’ anyway. Could be nice. Going out and having a few drinks with John.

Sherlock stalked off without even telling John he was leaving, and so that all but confirmed John and Greg’s pub visit. They found one a few roads away from Baker Street and John bought the first round.

“I was going to apologise for Sherlock’s behaviour today,” John started as he took a seat. “But I guess you know him well enough by now.”

“Yeah,” Greg agreed, savouring the ice-cold lager. “You don’t need to apologise for him to me. I know what he’s like.”

“How are you doing anyway?” John asked. He kept it vague, but Greg knew he was referring to Jane.

“Alright, cheers. Can’t complain.” Or perhaps he could, but he wouldn’t.

“So. I never really found out how you and Sherlock met.”

“I picked him up as a witness to a murder and he started hanging around.”

“Mycroft kidnap you afterwards too?” John asked.

Greg laughed. “Kidnap me? No. Why? He kidnap you?”

“In a sense, yeah. He turned all the CCTV cameras in the street around. Straight after we found the body in A Study In Pink.”

Greg laughed. “Sounds about right.” Greg smiled, affection in his voice as he added, “crazy bastard.”

“You met him much?”

“Sherlock not told you?”

“Told me what?”

“Nothing, doesn’t matter. Yeah, we know each other well. Better than I know Sherlock probably.”

“Really?”

Greg groaned. “Oh, bloody hell, you might as well know since everyone else does. Me and Mycroft used to… I dunno. Have a… I dunno how you’d describe it. We had a relationship.”

“A relationship?”

“Yeah. Relationship.”

“A… real one? With Mycroft Hol-we are talking about the same person here right?”

Greg laughed. “We are. Me and Mycroft. For a day. Officially a day, but really it was more like months. In fact it was more like a year altogether.”

“You were in a relationship. With Mycroft Holmes.”

“Yep.”

“And er… what did Sherlock make of that?”

“Wasn’t the biggest fan, but he tolerated it. For the most part.”

“I didn’t know you were…”

“Bisexual. Yeah.”

“So. What happened?” John asked.

“He ended it. I never really got to the bottom of why. I mean, it was so long ago now, it seems stupid to ask.”

“When?”

“Split up in January, 2007.”

“And there’s… nothing there now?”

“I’m still married,” Greg said, rubbing his finger against his wedding ring. “I still… I think I’m still willing to work things out with Jane. I married her because I love her, and I still do. We’ve got a lot of talking to do, but I think we can still figure it out.”

“But Mycroft. It’s definitely over between you?”

Greg frowned. He couldn’t figure out why John would ask that. “Yeah, course it is. It was nearly four years ago. Why wouldn’t it be?”

“I don’t know, it just surprised me.”

“Yeah. Me too. But. No, it’s done. We’re friends. Or were, or… he’s been busy.”

John nodded. “He and Sherlock have been sniping more than usual.”

“Oh, you’ve not seen anything,” Greg said. “You forget I’ve seen Sherlock pretty much at his very worst. Which means I’ve seen him and Mycroft at their most snipe-y too.”

“What was he like?”

“Sherlock? A brat.”

John smiled and drank his beer. “Fair enough.”

“Nah, that’s not fair really.” Greg wrinkled his nose, thinking. “Not loads different to now. Except for the drugs. And he wasn’t coping with his big brain very well. He’s still inappropriate and rude, and occasionally acts like a child, but not like he did in those days.”

“And you let him work on cases?”

“Yeah. Used it as bribery to get him to stop using. And, you know, Mycroft asked me to.”

“So you’re a spy for Mycroft?”

Greg snorted. “He wishes. Look, I’m loyal to Sherlock, alright? Mycroft’s tried a few times to get me to keep him up to date with everything his brother’s up to, but I need Sherlock to trust me too. So what’s your story?”

“Not much to tell. I trained as a doctor, joined the army, got shot, came back.”

“And that’s it?” Greg asked. “You’ll have to forgive me when I say I don’t believe it’s that simple.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’re friends with Sherlock. And he’s not exactly an easy person to be friends with. I just think there must be more to it.”

John shook his head. “There’s not. It really is that simple.”

Greg just nodded. “Alright,” he said. He stood up and took their empty glasses to the bar. He bought them each another beer and carried them to the table. “How’s your girlfriend?”

“Fine, thanks.”

Greg nodded. “And work?”

“Nearly got fired when I let Sherlock drag me to a crime scene.”

Greg laughed. “Why the blog?”

“My therapist thought it would help with Post-Traumatic Stress.”

Greg frowned. “And does it?”

“I don’t know, but it’s bringing us money.”

Greg laughed. “I couldn’t believe it when Sherlock first got his own clients. That was my idea, by the way. The Science Of Deduction. I told him to get a blog and he did. And then Mycroft suggested he get clients, and eventually he did. Drove me up the wall when he first started because obviously his ‘cases’ and mine would end up colliding. We’ve found a balance in the end, I think. We work more together than against each other.”

“And at the Yard? Everyone knows about it?”

“I’ve had the moral debate with a couple of people. I don’t know how much people outside our office know, but it’s not like we’re paying him. He’s just taking a look at some stuff, and he’s never contaminated a crime scene.” Greg frowned. “Well. Except when he’s stolen evidence.”

“Yeah, bit not good, that,” John agreed.

“Yeah. But it’s sorted. I know how to write around the issue in all my reports, and no one needs to be the wiser. What’s a few carefully written reports when we’ve put a murderer in jail, right?”

John nodded. “Of course.”

Greg forced a smile. He was almost beginning to believe that lie himself now. Impressive. He and John finished their second pints and then went their separate ways. It had been nice to get out for a while, and Greg took the tube back.

But having been sociable, walking into his empty flat felt even more hollow than before. And that was a struggle, even if he didn’t want to admit it.

 

* * *

 

A few weeks later, Jane asked if she could collect the last of her things. Greg was sat on the sofa signing some paperwork. He looked up at her. Her hair was tied into a bun on the top of her head. She wasn’t wearing make-up. Greg swallowed.

“Hey,” she said warily, hey eyes skipping around the room.

“Hi.”

“I’ll be out of your hair in 10 minutes,” she said, shuffling her feet. “I just need. Let me grab some bits, and then I’ll be gone almost like I was never here.”

Greg nodded. “It’s alright. Take as long as you need.”

“Ta.” She forced a smile and walked into the bedroom. Greg tried to turn his attention back to his work, but he couldn’t concentrate as he listened to Jane moving around the bedroom they had shared together. And were they going to leave it like this? With her belongings slowly leaving the flat, until there was nothing left to remind Greg she had ever been there at all?

She walked back out with a bag in hand and Greg studied her as she made for the door. “You. You look good,” he said.

She turned back to him and tilted her head. “I do? I don’t feel great.”

Greg shook his head. “Me neither.”

“I miss you,” she said.

It was only in that second that Greg missed her too. He missed coming home to her. The way she made him laugh. “Me too,” he said.

“Really?”

He nodded. “Really.”

She ran her hand over her hair. “I wish we could talk. Sometime. Maybe, if you’re free ever?”

“We should,” Greg agreed.

“Right. Good.”

“I don’t want to just give up on this,” Greg said. “I’ve been doing some thinking the last three months, and I think we really need to just… just try and see if we can figure this out.”

Jane nodded. “It’ll take a lot of talking,” she said.

“I know. But I’m willing to put the effort in if you are.”

“I am,” Jane whispered. “Oh God, are you serious?”

“I’m serious.”

She smiled slowly. “How about if I… if I come over next week and we’ll see if we can’t thrash something out.”

“Next Friday,” Greg said.

“Okay. 8pm?”

“Eight is good,” Greg agreed. “I’ll see you then.”

She smiled a little. “See you then.” Greg nodded and watched as she went. 

 

* * *

 

  _November, 2010_

They stared at each other from across the living room. After the initial easy questions - hi, how are you, how was work, what have you been up to - were over, they’d got rather stuck.

Jane stared down at her hands, frowning. Greg looked anywhere but her. Eventually she began to giggle. Greg couldn’t help himself but smile too. “Shall I make another round of drinks?” Greg asked.

Jane laughed. “Good idea.”

Greg got up and turned the kettle on and made Jane a tea and himself a coffee. He carried them out and took his seat again. “I don’t know where to begin,” Greg said.

“In order?” Jane asked. “I will answer every single question you have honestly if you’ll do the same.”

Greg nodded. “You’ve got yourself a deal.” He looked across at her. God, he didn’t even know what question to start with. “When did it start?”

“What?”

“The first affair.”

“Oh.” Jane sighed. “It was a… it was a reunion thing. I met with some old friends from my teaching course. There was someone there I knew and… we went out for dinner a few weeks later. We got steaming drunk and… God, it wasn’t meant to happen.” Jane shook her head. “I know I sound so detached saying all this, but you have to believe me, it’s only because I’ve had so long to think about it.”

Greg nodded. “It’s alright.”

“It was once,” Jane said. “Once. That was it.”

“Were you… were you angry with me or did you not like me or something?”

“I was…” Jane sighed and rubbed her face. “You’re going to hate this conversation, because it always goes back to the same thing.”

“What thing?”

Jane looked at her knees.

“Jane? We’re being honest with each other here.”

“Mycroft. He called you and you went running. Every bloody time. And Sherlock, y’know that day when he told you about my drug abuse?”

Greg nodded.

“Well, he also told us you were in love with Mycroft. And you said you weren’t, and fine, whatever, but maybe I didn’t handle it like I should have. But when Mycroft called and off you ran, I was convinced it was true. That you still loved him, and I was just a stop gap until you both realised you should be together. So, sure, when I got drunk with this guy, I was unhappy enough to sleep with him. I regretted it so much. More than I’ve ever regretted anything. It shouldn’t have happened. It was awful. I felt awful. But it was just once and… I didn’t want to risk losing you by telling you.”

“And then what happened?” Greg asked.

“Christmas. You worked it. No reason why. You worked the year before, it should have been your turn off but you didn’t take it. And you didn’t say why. Not a word. And you just worked all the time and. Greg, I’m not trying to blame you for this, okay? This is on me, 150 million per cent. But I’m just trying to tell you how I felt.”

Greg nodded. “I get it.”

“And so, I met someone at a party. And at first it was just drinks and conversations. He was struggling with his wife and we had a connection I suppose. It turned physical quickly.”

“How long did it last?”

“Two months.”

Greg sighed. “Right. And the final one?”

“Started in March, ended in July when Sherlock… y’know.”

“Who was he?”

“A school Governor. He was recently divorced. We were working on the school fete plans together.”

“And are you seeing anyone now?”

Jane shook her head. “Not since… not since that day. I’ve been hoping so much that we could try again.”

“You know Caroline cheated on me.”

“I know,” Jane whispered. “But I didn’t fall for any of them. It’s always you, Greg, hun. It always is. I just got so lonely, and so scared you and Mycroft were… did you ever?”

Greg shook his head. “No.”

“I’m sorry. I should have just asked.”

Greg bit his lip. “We fell asleep together once. On his sofa.”

She glanced at him. “When?”

“In May. The General Election night.”

“Not like I can be bothered about that,” Jane said. “Not with everything I did.”

“He’s the one who told me you were cheating on me.”

Jane frowned. “Why did you never say anything if you knew that long?”

“Because…” Greg sighed. “Because I can’t. I just hate these kinds of conversations.”

“You hate talking about anything that isn’t work.”

“I hate talking about my feelings. Always have.”

“I felt like something happened, something that bothered you and you just started… drifting away.”

Greg swallowed. He knew what it was. He thought about it a lot, the days when he stopped turning to Jane. “I found out who my birth parents were.”

She blinked and stared at him. “You did what?”

“After we got married. I… I found out who they were.”

“How?”

“I asked Mycroft.” She raised her eyebrows. He held his hands up. “I never said I was innocent in all this, Jane. I know I messed up too.”

“Mycroft found out who your parents were?”

“Yeah.”

“You never said. Never… I had no clue. Why did you do it?”

“Everyone kept saying ‘family’ to me, like it mattered. And I got curious.”

“Who were they? Who are they? Are they still-”

“-No, they’re dead. No extended family. He was a criminal involved in a syndicate in London and she gave me away before testifying against him in court. She was killed a few days later.”

Jane swallowed. “Oh God, that’s awful. Greg.”

“It’s fine.” Weirdly, it was. Saying it aloud for the first time made it easier. How had he hung onto that for so long and not said a word? “My name was Greg Knight.”

Jane smiled a bit. “That’s beautiful.”

Greg smiled wistfully. “Yeah, I guess it’s nice. She was called Connie. And she took me to a hospital before she went to the trial. I guess it got her killed, I don’t know. Mycroft gave me all this stuff, but I haven’t really looked at it. Oh. I’m 15 days older than I thought I was.”

Jane giggled. “Oh, you poor thing.”

Greg laughed. “I know. Explains the hair.”

“I love the hair.”

“At least someone does.”

Jane smiled and sipped her tea. She set it down on the table. “We stopped talking.”

“Yeah,” Greg agreed. “Yeah, we did.”

“It’s no excuse, I’m not trying to excuse what I did. But I guess I just didn’t want to lose you, so I never wanted to tell you that you were spending too much time away from home or that I was scared about Mycroft. There’s a reason we never fought. We weren’t willing to talk about the things that mattered.”

Greg nodded. The same thing had happened with Caroline. “You’re right.”

“We let it drift, as though leaving it alone would let it just carry on but… it was going so badly wrong.”

“Yeah. I’m angry at you. For what you did. But. I can’t even blame you for it, not totally. I get what happened.”

“It will never happen again, Greg.” She wiped her eyes. “Sorry. I swore to myself I wouldn’t cry.”

“It’s okay. Look, Jane, it’s early days. But maybe we can… maybe we can date. Go on some dinners and see where it goes?”

She smiled through the tears. “Yeah?”

Greg nodded. “Yeah. And this time we’ll be honest and talk about everything.”

They talked about more casual topics for the next hour or two. They spoke about work and swapped silly stories. Eventually Jane yawned and Greg showed her to the door. He kissed her cheek and she smiled. They arranged to meet again.

 

* * *

 

Mycroft sent Greg a small bobble-head policeman for his birthday. He put it beside his computer and laughed. A superior officer once told him his office had no character. Now it did. But more than that. It told Greg that Mycroft thought about him, sometimes, enough to remember his birthday.

And he refused to consider what that meant. 


	48. Every Bridge We Build, We Burn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many many lovely comments, and I thank you all. Have festive tidings, Mice, JustLookFrightenedAndScuttle, Jaeh, psychicdreams, Queenoftheuniverse, maliciouspixie5, artemisdecibal, ladyxdarcy, MoonRiver, WhiskeySally, KingTaran, CommunionNimrod, beccab, OwlinAutumn, ivefoundmygoldfish (melonpanparade), Per_Solem, simoneallen and Copgirl1964 (because this chapter made me feel blimming Christmassy!)

_November, 2010_

Greg began dating Jane again. That’s what they called it. Dating to see if the connection was still there, if sparks still flew.

Conversations flowed easily. The things about her Greg had loved were still things he adored. But the end of their nights out for meals, cinema visits and walks through the park were always awkward. Greg wanted nothing more than to kiss her and take her back to the flat. But he still felt burned. When he even considered kissing her, he thought of other men who had done the same.

So he kissed her on the cheek each time, and they forced uneasy smiles at each other, while she awkwardly shuffled her feet along with her goodbyes and he didn’t completely want her to go.

But he let her, every time, because he wasn’t ready.

 

* * *

 

_December, 2010_

 

Sender: Watson, John  
Subject: Christmas  
Hi,  
Me and Sherlock would like to invite you to 221b for some drinks and nibbles on Christmas Day. Come over at about 5pm? Sherlock promised Mrs Hudson he will be on his best behaviour.  
Thanks! John

 

Greg hesitated. He wasn’t a fan of Christmas. But he had worked the last two, and actually, a night at Baker Street didn’t seem so bad. He didn’t think Sherlock would be overly festive, so it would be just a casual night with friends, he suspected. 

 

To: Watson, John  
Subject: Re: Christmas  
Hi John,  
Count me in.  
Cheers,  
Greg.

 

He and Jane saw each other two or three times a week. Greg took her to Hyde Park for its annual Winter Wonderland event. A large ferris wheel lit up the area, young couples and children took to an ice rink and Jane and Greg explored the German market. She picked up various knick-knacks for friends and family.

Greg found silver cufflinks with a reindeer engraved onto each one. And though Greg knew Mycroft despised Christmas as much as he did, he couldn’t resist handing over some money to buy them. Jane eyed his purchase with interest, but didn’t say a word.

He bought Sherlock a snow globe. It had a particularly perturbed and angry-looking elf inside, and its expression reminded Greg so much of Sherlock and how he looked when he was chastised in some way.

He and Jane sat inside the tent by a fake fire. She’d bought them both mulled wine and she took her new cat face ear-muffs off, putting them on the table. Greg sipped his drink. “Needed this,” he said.

She smiled. “Oh, I know. It’s amazing. I’ll have to find a recipe and make them for Christmas this year.”

“That sounds good. How’s work been?”

“The kids have been terrors. Too excited about Christmas for my liking.” Jane laughed. “Oh, we did have this one hilarious moment. We were rehearsing the nativity play. And there is a moment where Joseph picks up the baby Jesus. Anyway, this kid picked Jesus up, held him out and the head just fell right off the doll, dropped onto the stage and rolled down the steps. And the poor lamb playing Joseph burst into tears and said ‘I killed Jesus!’ The thing was, it was so funny it was hard to comfort him. We’ve put more glue on the doll now.”

Greg laughed with her as she told the story. She grinned. “Hopefully we can avoid more mishaps when we actually perform the show. I saw another article about Sherlock in the news this week.”

“Another one?” Greg asked. “Did it have anything interesting to say?”

“Not really. They’re clearly trying to work out who he is, but they’re not doing a great job.”

Greg nodded. “That’s good. Sherlock hype seems to have died down a little bit in the last few months. Hopefully this will be the end of it.”

“It’s been strange. Knowing a celebrity.”

Greg laughed. “I think it’s funny, because the press has this whole idea of what Sherlock’s like, and I don’t think they’ve cottoned onto what he’s like at all.”

“That’s because he’s one of a kind. Has to be seen to be believed. I’m sure he’ll love the snow globe.”

Greg grinned. “He will absolutely hate it. I can’t wait to see his face.”

“You never know. He may surprise you.”

Greg nodded. “He’s so much more chilled out now. Changed a lot. Bloody proud of him in a weird way.”

“No more drugs?”

“Not in ages. It’s given me a proper reason not to start smoking again too.”

“Then I’m proud of both of you.”

Greg smiled at her. They finished their drinks and walked back past the skaters. Jane glanced at it. “Come on.”

Greg laughed. “No chance. There’s no way on earth I’m going to be any good at it.”

“You’ve really never tried?” Jane asked.

“Nope.”

“Half an hour. It’s really fun.”

“I’ll be just like Bambi.”

She smiled. “Hey, Bambi’s cute at least?”

Greg laughed and let her lead them round to the kiosk to pay. They sat down and laced up their boots. “Still not sure this is a good idea,” Greg said.

“And I’m still sure it will be.”

Jane stood up and Greg copied the way she walked onto the ice. He joined her, holding tightly onto the sides. “You can just pull yourself around the edges for a bit,” Jane said. “But I promise, it’s not as bad as you think.” To demonstrate, she slid a little way in front of him. “Come to me,” she said, holding her hands out.

Greg frowned and let go of the edge. He couldn’t believe she’d talked him into this. Not that he’d needed too much persuading because he had been quietly curious to see what it was like. He slid to her, quickly grabbing the side again as he got there. They both looked at each other and laughed. “That was great!” she encouraged.

They did a few laps, Greg stumbling a few times. But he felt like he was beginning to get the hang of it. It wasn’t like he’d fallen on his arse yet or anything. But of course, he’d thought that too soon, and after taking a corner too sharply he found himself on shaky feet with his arms flailing out in front of him. He grabbed Jane’s arm and she squealed and grabbed onto his coat, which was the very worst thing she could have done as they both slid and tumbled onto the ice.

Greg cracked up laughing, rubbing his face and looking at her. Jane was in hysterics. “Greg Lestrade!” she cried out, playfully hitting his arm. “You utter meanie.”

Greg laughed harder. “Meanie? That’s the best you can come up with?”

“Oh, you, you, ice falling down person, you!”

Greg laughed harder. He tried to stand, but he fell again. Jane was laughing so hard she had tears running down her face. Her cheeks were pink. And Jane Starnes had turned Greg’s life around once, when he’d felt so low, and though she was the cause of much of the despair he was feeling now, the feelings he had for her hit him in a rush. And he leaned over and kissed her. It took her by surprise. She hesitated for a second before returning the kiss, smiling against his mouth.

“We should go home,” Greg said.

“Home?”

“Yeah.” Greg nodded. “Yeah,” he said again. “Back to our flat.”

“Our flat,” Jane murmured. “You really mean it?”

“I really mean it.” She beamed at him and he smiled back. “How are we getting up?” he asked.

“With difficulty!” Jane laughed as she started to return to her feet. She helped Greg up and they returned their boots. They walked to the tube station hand in hand.

They picked up the car and drove over to Jane’s flat to pick up Louis and some stuff. Greg drove them back home.

“What are you doing for Christmas?” he asked.

“Going to Dorset to see the folks. Do you… do you want to come?”

“I would,” Greg said as he turned the kettle on. “But I already promised to go round Baker Street for a party there.”

“Okay.”

Greg hesitated for a second. “You know what,” he said. “I’ll text John and tell him thanks but I can’t make it.”

“You don’t have to,” Jane said.

“I know. But I want to spend it with you.

They drank their tea and coffee and laughed at Louis’ antics as he sniffed around the flat. They made love on the sofa and talked about television and films and jokes for the remainder of the night.

Waking up beside Jane felt so right. He hadn’t entirely forgiven her - and warned her as such - but he forgave her enough to let her back into his life again. The trust would take a long time to rebuild, but they were both willing to try.

He and Jane collected the remainder of her things the next day. It felt as though light had returned to the flat. And it felt good. Not perfect, but good and like a home again.

In the afternoon, he went to Bart’s. Molly wanted to show him something unusual about the bruising on a body, and her suspicions it was murder. “Perhaps you’ll want Sherlock to take a look?” she asked. “But really, I do suspect foul play.”

Greg nodded. “I trust your judgement. Don’t need Sherlock for everything.” Greg looked closer at the body.

“So what are you doing for Christmas?” Molly asked.

“Going to Dorset. You?”

“I haven’t really thought,” she said.

Greg felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. “Sorry, just a sec.” He looked at the screen. Mycroft. “I need to take this.” He pressed accept. “Lestrade.”

“Good afternoon,” Mycroft said. “I want to meet for a very brief conversation. Are you available?”

“Yeah, sure. When and where?”

“As soon as you’re free. I’m quite happy to meet at New Scotland Yard.”

“The Yard it is then,” Greg said. “I’m just at Bart’s at the moment, but I’ll hop on over there now if that suits you?”

“Yes, that suits me very well.”

“Great. In a bit then.” Greg hung up. “Molly, sorry, I’ve got to go back for a meeting. Can you please scan and send over all the papers you have on this? I need it pretty quickly, we’ve got to inform the family and stuff.”

“Of course.”

Greg grinned. “Cheers.” He left Bart’s and drove back to work. When he got there, he found Mycroft was already sat in his office, sipping coffee from a Jennifer Aniston mug.

Mycroft looked up at him and looked at the mug with a perplexed expression. “Your PC Brockhurst was kind enough to make me a drink. I wasn’t expecting the half naked woman.”

Greg laughed and sat down. “Yeah, that’s Sam for you.”

Mycroft looked at him. “You’ve fixed things with your wife.”

“Yeah. Yeah, just last night.”

“Congratulations.”

Greg shrugged. “That doesn’t seem like the right word somehow. But yeah. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

Greg crossed his arms. “What can I do for you anyway?”

“I want your papers for the man found in a car in Southwark.”

“The guy who was meant to be on the plane?”

“Yes.”

“But that was months ago.”

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. Greg shrugged and turned to his computer. “We haven’t got much. None of it made any sense, so…” He pressed print. “I hope this is all you want, because it’s all I’ve got.” Greg stood up and took the paper from the printer and handed it over.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

Mycroft stood up, taking hold of his umbrella. “And will you be attending Sherlock’s Christmas gathering?”

“No, not in the end. We’re going to Dorset.”

“A pity,” Mycroft said. “I’m sure it would be a joyous occasion.”

“Speaking of joyous occasions…” Greg opened the drawer of his desk and took out the box with the cufflinks. “I was going to drop this round to your office at some point, but since you’re here, you might as well have this now.”

Mycroft frowned and took the small box from him.

“Open it on Christmas Day,” Greg said. “Not right now.”

“Of course. Thank you.”

Greg smiled at him. “Well. I’ll see you soon yeah?”

“Of course.” Mycroft half smiled and left. Greg leaned back in his chair as he watched him go. He found he had really quite missed him. They really did need to have a catch-up soon.

He left work on time and brought back some fish and chips to share with Jane. She sat in her pyjamas as they watched Inception together. Greg heard his phone buzz and picked it up.

 

MESSAGES Mycroft Holmes  
7.14pm: I’m hoping for a Christmas  
miracle to make Sherlock shut up.  
One day of silence is all I ask. M

 

A slow smile spread over Greg’s face as he read it. He ate a chip.

 

MESSAGES  
7.17pm: If it were possible, I’d have  
bought you that for Xmas. But I don’t  
think it would be possible to wrap?

 

He grinned to himself and hit send. Jane glanced over at him. “Someone amused you?”

“Yeah, just a text about Sherlock. Y’know, Jane, I was thinking. Is it possible that we go over to Baker Street at Christmas? It’s just. Well, I’ve never done that before and I think it would be really nice.”

“What about my parents?” she asked.

“Can we go on Boxing Day?”

“Well… it’s not ideal.”

Greg’s phone chimed again. “Sorry, one sec.”

 

MESSAGES Mycroft Holmes  
7.20pm: I had hoped Doctor Watson  
would improve the situation. He  
is driving me to distraction. M

 

MESSAGES  
7.21pm: It’s only made him much  
much worse. What you doing anyway?  
Didn’t think you were much of a  
texter?

 

Jane sighed. “So? What’s the plan then?”

Greg glanced at her. “We’ll go to Baker Street and then head off in the morning.”

“I’m not going to Baker Street. Not after what happened the last time we were there. I can’t be bothered to deal with Sherlock Holmes.”

“Fair enough,” Greg said. He looked down at his phone.

 

MESSAGES Mycroft Holmes  
7.23pm: Stuck in last minute meetings,  
I’m afraid. Not long until I get  
a few days off. M

 

MESSAGES  
7.24pm: Sucks to be you right now then.  
Am watching a film. We should do a  
movie night when you’re free.

 

“Who on earth are you texting?” Jane asked.

“It’s just Mycroft. He’s stuck in boring meetings.”

“Of course he is,” Jane murmured. “Fine, sure. Go to Baker Street and then we’ll go to my parents’ the next day.”

Greg leaned over and kissed her cheek. “Cheers, love.”

 

* * *

 

The next evening, Jane went out. She text Greg at 10.45pm to say she wasn’t expecting to be home at all and would be staying at Caroline’s house. Weird, Greg thought, thinking of his wife and ex-wife spending a night with some wine and catching up.

Jane was true to her word, and wasn’t home by the time Greg left to go to work. In the morning, he had Sherlock at his desk, rambling on about bruises and the seven weapons which could feasibly have caused that particular marking on their dead man.

“I’m coming to your Christmas do tomorrow by the way,” Greg told him as he went to leave. “So I’ll be round about five.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Why John insisted on it, I will never know.”

Greg laughed. “Well, I’ll see you tomorrow anyway.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and walked out. To Greg’s surprise, Jane appeared just a few minutes later. “Brought you a sandwich,” she said, handing it over.

“Cheers, that’s brilliant. Thank you.”

She smiled. “Welcome. I’m off to do some last minute Christmas shopping.” She leaned over and gave Greg a quick kiss. “See you tonight.”

 

* * *

 

It began to snow on Christmas Day. It started at 4pm, and Greg left home early to get to Baker Street on time. He took the tube, opting not to risk the traffic in the snow. The tube was busy, and he managed to find himself a spot near the door so he could imagine it wasn’t so crowded.

He got to Baker Street at 4.45pm, and let himself in. “Good tidings,” he grinned as he walked in, shaking John’s hand.

“Hi, come on in,” John said. Greg handed him a bottle of wine. “Great, thanks.” Greg glanced at the woman at Greg’s side.

“This is Jeanette,” John explained. “Jeanette, this is Greg Lestrade, works for Scotland Yard.”

“Nice to meet you.”

“Likewise,” Greg said. He reached into his coat pocket. “Got something for you, Sherlock.”

Sherlock frowned at him. “What is it?” Greg passed him the box. Sherlock raised his eyebrows. “A gift. Why?” He took the lid off and stared at the snow globe.

“The elf has a face like yours,” Greg explained. “Thought it was funny.”

Mrs Hudson laughed and took the snow globe from Sherlock before he had an opportunity to throw it away. “Oh, it’s lovely, Sherlock!” she giggled, turning it over so it began to snow. “He really does have Sherlock’s pout.” Greg grinned and took the drink John gave him. “Sherlock, play something,” Mrs Hudson said.

Sherlock let out a long-suffering sigh, but he reached for his violin without further complaint. Greg leaned against the door frame.

Sherlock paused for a moment to check he had a captured audience before he began to play. Greg smiled slowly as he listened to the rendition of We Wish You A Merry Christmas.

He’d told Jane how proud he was of Sherlock. He’d kicked the smoking, he’d kicked the drug habit and he was slowly turning into a marginally more considerate human being.

It was the first time Greg had seen him play, and he was impressed. He was so talented, appearing lost in the music as he wandered around the living room. Greg felt the pride swell in his chest. He was glad he’d come. Seeing Sherlock like this just reaffirmed everything he was doing in involving him in crime scenes. Seeing this bloke grow up over the past five years was something he wouldn’t have missed for anything. He glanced around the people in the room.

Mrs Hudson had a delighted smile on her face. She looked like a proud mother. It was an eclectic group of people in this room, Greg thought. But actually, it felt very much like a funny dysfunctional family. A bit like how he always imagined Christmases should be, and very much the opposite of any he’d ever had.

Sherlock finished his playing and Greg smiled, tapping his hand against his glass. “Lovely!” Mrs Hudson cooed. “Sherlock, that was lovely.”

“Yeah, very good,” Greg agreed when Sherlock looked at him. “Very good.”

“I wish you could have worn the antlers!” Mrs Hudson giggled.

“Some things are best left to the imagination, Mrs Hudson,” Sherlock said.

Greg leaned against the frame as he drank, watching Sherlock manage to insult John’s girlfriend in the process. He chose not to intervene. It made Greg wonder how on earth he’d managed to become so tolerated by Sherlock when he had so little time for most other people.

Greg looked over as Molly walked into the room. “Hello, everyone,” she smiled, waving. “Sorry, hello. Er, it said on the door just to come up.”

Greg said hi along with everyone else and watched as John offered to help her with her coat. She took it off and Greg’s eyes widened when he saw her dress. “Wow,” he murmured. He stared at her. Well, she certainly looked different out of her lab coat. He continued to gawk for a few moments, before he realised what he was doing. Too old and too married to continue staring.

“Molly, do you want a drink?” he asked her.

“Oh, wine please.”

Greg smiled and went into the kitchen. He found the bottle he’d brought and poured it for her, along with another drink for himself.

He carried it out to her. “Thank you,” Molly said as she turned her attention to him. “I wasn’t expecting to see you. I thought you were going to be in Dorset for Christmas.”

“That’s first thing in the morning,” Greg said. And in the same room where his marriage had been dramatically exposed as a failure just months ago, he added: “Me and the wife, we’re back together. It’s all sorted.”

“No, she’s sleeping with a PE teacher,” Sherlock said.

Greg’s chest tightened, as he kept the smile fixed on his face. Mrs Hudson abruptly turned her gaze away. Sleeping with the PE teacher. What? Just a few days after they got back together and… oh, but she’d been gone the whole night. He was an idiot not to have seen it.

Greg rolled his eyes. Actually, he wasn’t as hurt as he should have been. And that had to count for something. He wasn’t entirely shocked. And he wasn’t desperately miserable. And it was done. It would be over. For good this time.

Greg turned and walked into the kitchen, giving himself a few moments to piece it all together in his head. He couldn’t exactly go to Dorset with her now, not after this. And he would confront her. They promised to talk more, and he was going to do some serious talking when he got back.

He could hear Sherlock’s insults becoming more and more barbed. Greg poured a drink for Sherlock. “Shut up and have a drink,” he told him, putting it down on the desk.

“Oh, come on. Surely you’ve all seen the present at the top of the bag – perfectly wrapped with a bow. All the others are slapdash at best.” He walked towards Molly’s gifts.

“It’s for someone special, then. The shade of red echoes her lipstick – either an unconscious association or one that she’s deliberately trying to encourage. Either way, Miss Hooper has lurve on her mind. The fact that she’s serious about him is clear from the fact she’s giving him a gift at all. That would suggest long-term hopes, however forlorn, and that she’s seeing him tonight is evident from her make-up and what she’s wearing. Obviously trying to compensate for the size of her mouth and breasts…”

And then he stopped talking.

Greg heard Molly gasp. All those things Greg had thought about Sherlock growing up and being a better person had been killed in an instant.

“You always say such horrible things,” Molly said, hurt. “Every time. Always. Always.”

Greg sighed. Sherlock was a bastard. But then he spoke. “I am sorry. Forgive me.”

Greg stared at him. Sherlock walked towards Molly and kissed her on the cheek. And well, that was unexpected. It was kind, even following the tidal wave of deductions he had just delivered.

And then there was the orgasm sound. "No!” Molly said, startled. “That wasn’t… I didn’t…”

“No, it was me,” Sherlock said.

Greg stared at him. “My God, really?”

“My phone,” Sherlock explained. Greg let out a relieved sigh.

He watched as Sherlock walked to the fireplace, picking up a present. “Excuse me,” he said.

“What’s up, Sherl?” John called after him.

“I said excuse me.” He walked to his bedroom, John soon following behind.

Greg frowned and exchanged a look with Mrs Hudson.

“Are you alright?” Molly asked him.

Greg nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, fine. Are you?”

Molly nodded. “Mostly,” she said. She took a seat and sipped her wine.

“Don’t think anything of it, dear,” Mrs Hudson said. “You know how he is.”

“I know,” Molly said. Greg walked to the window and looked out at the snow. John walked back into the room and Greg glanced at him. He looked bewildered.

Sherlock walked back out 10 minutes later. “Molly. I need someone at the morgue at Bart’s. There’s a body being brought in. It’s urgent.”

Greg frowned. “D’you need me?”

“No. Mycroft’s picking me up in half an hour.” Sherlock turned back to Molly. “Can you get someone there by then?”

Molly nodded. “I’ll go. It was nice to see you, everybody.” She smiled. “Have a nice night.”

Sherlock walked back to his room without a word. Greg glanced down at his phone. He considered leaving too, but if Mycroft was going to be there in half an hour… He went to the kitchen and poured himself a drink. He needed all the dutch courage he could get for when he got home. He didn’t want to be drunk, but he needed something to push him into speaking. He had to get it all out. Over and done with, like pulling off a plaster.

He sat by the window, watching the cars drive past while pondering his second failed marriage. Jeanette was talking to John and Mrs Hudson about her work. Sherlock was no where to be seen.

The door to 221b opened and Mycroft walked in. Greg glanced up at him. His face was grave. Sherlock walked back into the living room.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft murmured, nodding his head at him.

“Found her?” Sherlock asked.

“Possibly,” Mycroft said.

“I’ll get my coat.” Sherlock walked back to his room.

Greg stood up, walking over to Mycroft and ignoring the curious look John was giving him. “Everything alright?” he asked. Mycroft pressed his lips together. “Mycroft?” Greg pressed.

“I don’t know.” Mycroft looked at Greg, and then frowned. “Oh, what did he do this time?”

“What?” Greg asked.

“Sherlock. He told you something.”

Greg sighed. “Jane’s cheating. Again. Still. I don’t know.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright.”

Mycroft nodded. “Thank you for the cufflinks.

Greg smiled. “You’re welcome.”

“I have left something for you on your desk at work,” Mycroft said.

“Are you two quite finished?” Sherlock interrupted. “Mycroft. Come.” Sherlock turned and stormed out of the flat.

Mycroft sighed. He reached out and touched Greg’s arm for one brief moment. “I promise we will have dinner.”

Greg nodded. “That’d be good. Cheers.”

They stood looking at each other for a few moments. Mycroft looked genuinely concerned, wavering almost, as though he wanted to stay. Greg nodded at him.

“Well, I should be off,” Mycroft finally said. “Goodnight, Greg.”

“Night.”

Mycroft turned to John. “Will you please check everywhere for drugs?”

John frowned and nodded. “Sure, but…”

“I’ll offer him a cigarette. If he takes it, it’s likely to be a danger night. Sherlock and Greg’s pact has been a good one. They’re both stubbornly refusing to smoke. But if Sherlock is willing to lose, is willing to accept a cigarette, we will be right to be concerned.” Greg stared at him. He had no idea Mycroft had thought about their non-smoking and non-drug taking deal that deeply. “I’ll be in touch.” Mycroft turned back to Greg. “Greg, I will call you.”

“Cheers.”

Mycroft walked down the stairs. Greg sighed and rubbed his face as John raised his eyebrows at him. “Thought it was over between you two?” John asked.

“It is.”

John shrugged. “You just seem pretty friendly, that’s all.”

“Because we’re friends. Look, d’you need a hand with the drug search or have you got it? ‘Cause I really should get back and… end my marriage.” He forced a smile.

“No, we’re good,” John said. “You alright?”

“I will be. Remember to check his socks, yeah?”

John nodded. “Anywhere else?”

“He used a hollowed-out book once. Worth just checking any in his room. Night, John. Mrs Hudson.”

Mrs Hudson smiled at him, and Greg wandered down the steps. He saw Mycroft’s car drive down the road and he sighed as he watched it go. He walked to the tube station.

He stared at his knees during the journey, trying to work out how this was going to go. He touched his wedding ring. He just couldn’t believe this had happened again. But it was the last time. It was over.

He hesitated when he reached the door, and took one long deep breath before opening the door. Jane was sat on the sofa, Louis resting by her feet. A suitcase stood by the door. Greg glanced at it and then back at her.

She spoke first. “He told you, right?”

Greg clenched his teeth. “Yeah, he did.”

Jane sighed. “I knew he knew. I walked past him at the Yard the other day when I came to bring you that sandwich. I just… it’s Sherlock, isn’t it? I knew he knew. I was just waiting for him to tell you.”

“I can’t believe you did this to me again. After everything we talked through.”

“Nothing changed, Greg,” she replied tightly.

“Yes it did! We were trying. We were talking.”

“No, nothing changed,” she said. “Despite everything we talked about, I was still in the exact same position as before.”

Greg stared at her. “You’re blaming me? You could have spoken to me before sleeping around. Again.”

“I might have spent our marriage sleeping around. But at least I didn’t spend it in love with somebody else.”

“What? I’m not-”

“-You are, Greg. Because sometimes it would be just you and me being together. And then Mycroft Holmes rang, and I wasn’t in the room anymore. It was all about you and him.”

Greg shook his head. Why the hell was it always about bloody Mycroft? “No that’s not-”

“Yes it is. When Sherlock’s flat blew up and he told me you loved him, I saw it. And y’know, I stupidly thought it was going to change. But it never did. He was always the person you saw when you closed your eyes. Not me. It was never me.”

“I am not in love with Mycroft!”

“Yes you are!” Jane stood up and shook her head. “For God’s sake. Have you ever seen your face when he texts you? ‘Cause I have. I live with it every shitting day. You adore him. You will do anything he asks, and you pretend you don’t, but you do. He calls, and you go running, because you are in completely in love with him. And you do love me. But not like that. You don’t look at me like you look at his name when it pops up on your phone. And I can’t live like that.”

“Jane. This is… this is stupid. You’re blaming me for your cheating, but I am not in love with Mycroft.”

“Greg. It’s okay. I’m making peace with it. But I think it’s fair to say this is over.”

He stared at her. That was the last thing he expected her to say. He expected her to try and fight for their marriage. But instead, she was letting it go.

“I hate Christmas,” Greg finally muttered, slumping into the sofa.

“I know, sweetie. Me too. We were good for each other and I love you. But I’m not the one you need. It makes me really sad. But it makes me kind of hopeful too. That maybe one day someone will look at me the way I imagine you look at him.”

Greg glanced at her. “I don’t… Jane, I don’t.”

She smiled sadly. “Really?”

“I’m not.”

Jane took a seat beside him. “Just promise me something?”

“What?”

“That you’ll tell him. Tell him you love him.”

“I don’t-”

“Okay fine. Promise me you’ll stop living in denial sometime. Just. Think about it, okay?”

Greg frowned. “I don’t have feelings for him.”

“No? So when he calls, you don’t have a big smile on your face just from seeing his name? And you don’t start grinning like a teenage girl when you talk about him?”

“I don’t.”

Jane patted his shoulder. “Whatever you say. I know we didn’t give this a very good try this time. But I just can’t do this. And y’know what? I’m not crying, because I know it’s the right thing. And you’re not even angry at me, because you know too. Give yourself some time, Greg, and then tell him.”

“Nothing to tell.”

“Methinks the man doth protest too much.” Jane stood up and put Louis’ lead on him.

“Where you going?” Greg asked.

“Sister’s. We’re going to Dorset first thing. Assuming the snow doesn’t get much worse.”

“I’ll be in touch.”

“I’ll be in contact with a lawyer in the New Year.”

Greg nodded. “I’m sorry, Jane.”

“Me too,” she said. “I really am.” She smiled a bit and turned and left.

Greg sighed and closed his eyes. He reached for his phone and scrolled through all his texts from Mycroft. They weren’t particularly long, some conversations weeks and months apart.

He poured himself a drink and took himself to bed, lying in the dark and thinking. He rather stubbornly told himself not to think about Mycroft. Because he couldn’t be in love with him. He just couldn’t do it.

 

* * *

 

The rest of Christmas was a thoroughly miserable affair. Greg didn’t tell anyone at work about his ruined marriage. He kept his ring on, desperate to avoid questions until he was ready and willing to answer them.

When he returned to work after Christmas, he found a gift from Mycroft on his desk. He opened it, to find a copy of Goldfinger by Ian Fleming. A quick look inside revealed it to be a signed first edition. Greg stared at it. It was absolutely exquisite. He went to Argos and bought himself a bookshelf. He spent that night putting it together, and put his new book and the ones he had borrowed from Mycroft on it. He smiled to himself.

On New Year’s Eve, he was called to Baker Street where a burglar had ‘fallen out of a window’. Greg spent that night trying to manufacture a report into what had taken place.

He spent several hours down the pub with Sam, Piper and Sally. They saw the New Year in together, drinking and laughing. Greg thought it was a small mercy that he was able to go that long without once thinking about his love life.

 

* * *

 

_January, 2011_

Two days later, and Mycroft visited Greg’s office. Greg looked up at him. “You alright?” he asked.

“Yes. Thank you.” He took a seat opposite Greg. “And yourself?”

“Not perfect, but not bad either really. Considering. How’d everything go on Christmas Day? Did he… drugs and stuff?”

“No. Not as far as I am aware.”

“Good,” Greg said. “I’ve been worrying.”

“Likewise.”

“What’s going on?” Greg asked.

“Irene Adler was apparently dead. It rather inexplicably affected Sherlock.”

“Wow. That’s… unusual.”

“Quite. I’ve taken care of the situation with the burglar. So you needn’t worry about your report being exposed as a false account.”

Greg smiled gratefully. “I really appreciate that. Thank you. Bloke had quite a fall.”

“He did indeed.”

Greg studied him. “You look worried.”

Mycroft frowned. “Do I?”

“A bit, yeah. Don’t worry, I’m sure most people wouldn’t notice it.”

Mycroft pressed his lips together for a second before changing the subject. “And how are you? Really?”

Greg shrugged. “Mostly alright. I’m keeping pretty quiet about it all to be honest. Just can’t believe it keeps happening to me. That’s two divorces now. Well, eventually two divorces anyway. I mean, what is it about me? Do I have a sign on my head that says ‘doormat’ on it?”

“No.”

“It’s just, Caroline first and then Jane. Why?”

“It’s not in anyway your fault.”

“It feels like it.”

“You simply married women with more needs than you could ever hope to fulfil. That is through no fault of your own. But those in need of saving are rather drawn to you, and likewise you to them.”

Greg snorted. “Sherlock said that to me once. But it’s not true.”

“No? I rather think people are drawn to your caring nature.”

“Doesn’t go well for me though, does it?”

“Perhaps not on this occasion, no.”

Greg sighed. “It’s fine, I’m alright.”

“Of course.”

“Is there anything else you need?” Greg asked.

Mycroft stood up. “No. Thank you. I’m out of the country for the rest of the month, but I believe I am free on February 12. Dinner?”

“Love to,” Greg said.

Mycroft smiled. “Excellent. I’m sorry it isn’t sooner. I wish it were.”

“It’s alright. Honest.”

“Have a good month.”

“You too.”

“Unlikely, with these meetings. But I will try.”

Greg laughed. “See you soon, Mycroft.”

“Yes, take care.”

Greg watched him go with a smile.

 

* * *

 

_February, 2011_

After work on a Friday, Greg got home promptly and jumped in the shower. There was a small thrill in his chest at the thought of an evening spent at Mycroft’s. And yet also a nervous jitter he couldn’t pin-point the cause of.

It had been a good week. Cases were wrapped up, juries had delivered guilty verdicts and the annual performance review had been completed and the serious crime division had once again improved on its numbers from the previous year.

Greg was proud. Happy. And so, standing under the hot water he allowed himself to wrap a hand around his cock, succumbing to small pleasures in a way he hadn’t done for a couple of months.

He wasn’t ashamed to admit to himself who the object of his desire was. He should have realised months ago that he still had a longing for Mycroft’s body and, well, the feel of a man above him. And oh God, what a man.

He thought about sharing the shower with him. With Mycroft taking him against the wall until they were flushed and panting. And Mycroft dropping to his knees afterwards to finish Greg off, because he truly had the most unbelievable mouth. Greg was sure his tongue had either extra length or amazing flexibility.

He came into his hand, gasping, before washing his body and hair. He turned his CD player on, walking between the living room and bedroom as he dried and got dressed. He wore a shirt with his jeans, deciding to look smarter than usual.

He walked to Crusader House, and jogged up the stairs with a grin on his face. He was let through (“Good evening, Detective Inspector Lestrade,” the butler said, and Greg was almost too shocked to be polite in return).

He walked in and found Mycroft in his chair by the fireplace, already nursing a drink as he sat on his laptop. He looked up and smiled.

Greg held his plastic bag out. “I’ve got your books.”

Mycroft smiled. “Mycroft Holmes’ library service to the rescue then.” He stood up. “Can I offer you a drink?”

“I’ll have what you’re having, cheers.”

Mycroft closed his laptop down and put it on the side-table before walking to his decanter. “How were the books?”

“There was one I really liked. I think I’d read it again. The Orwell one.”

“Animal Farm is one of my favourites also.”

Greg smiled and sat down on the sofa. “It’s good. And then I finished Goldfinger the other day. Thanks for that, by the way. It’s got pride of place on my new bookcase.”

“You bought a bookcase? Will the Mycroft Holmes Library Service be closing down soon?”

Greg laughed. “No chance. I don’t have any books to fill it with.”

Mycroft laughed too and gave him a drink. He took the bag from Greg and restocked his bookcase. “What are you in the mood for?”

“Something a bit funny. Do you have some comedies?”

“Certainly.”

Greg turned from his seat on the sofa to look at him. And so was he in love with Mycroft? He watched from the other side of the living room as Mycroft browsed his bookshelves. He got an excited feeling in his chest whenever he saw him, that was certain. But it wasn’t a new feeling. In fact, he was sure he’d always had it. He just liked spending time with him. It wasn’t an unusual feeling to have when you liked someone, Greg was sure. But it didn’t mean the big L word, did it?

And he’d thought about him. Hell, he’d dreamed about him, but usually it was in a sexual way. He didn’t often consider walking over to him and wrapping his arms around him. Because that was what couples in love did. So, if he wasn’t searching out Mycroft’s arms, he couldn’t be feeling the L word, could he?

And anyway. If he was in love with Mycroft then he’d know. He’d feel it. He’d be jumping at the idea of kissing him.

And so what if he did love Mycroft? It was in a purely platonic way. He wasn’t hunting for some sort of future for them both. And good God, he had only just begun to get divorce proceedings underway. He was probably just feeling and thinking these things because he was lonely.

Mycroft walked over to him and put a stack of books down on the table. “I think these should be sufficient for a while.”

“That’s great. Thanks for this.”

“I may need to invest in some more books myself,” Mycroft mused as he looked down at them. “I’ve included one of my favourites in this pile, I wonder if you will be able to work out which it is?”

Greg watched him with a smile. “I’ll let you know.”

“Right. Very good. Dinner.”

“What are we having?”

“Lasagne,” Mycroft said.

Greg grinned. “Your lasagne is brilliant.”

“I’ll open a bottle of wine and give it time to breathe.”

Greg sunk onto Mycroft’s sofa, watching him go into the kitchen. He caught himself smiling. So it wasn’t as clear-cut as he’d hoped. It wasn’t a simple answer to: Do you love Mycroft Holmes? A – yes. B – no.

Except that it was. It was answer A. He loved him like a friend. His only real close friend. But to the question, are you in love with Mycroft Holmes, it was infinitely more complicated.

He’d always acknowledged that given the chance, he would have fallen for him. He always knew that if Mycroft had any inclination to give them a chance (when Greg was single, of course) then he would be willing to give himself over to him. Completely.

But simultaneously, he had the accompanying doubt and fear. That Mycroft wasn’t the sort to settle down and have a relationship. That they had tried once before and it had backfired spectacularly. That Mycroft would perhaps be willing to engage in his sexual or physical relationship, but not an emotional one.

And anyway. Greg still wasn’t divorced yet. He was as good as. But that wasn’t the same thing, and he wasn’t going to go around propositioning Mycroft Holmes – not yet.

Tempting though it was. And especially tempting as he carried out a decanter of wine in his spectacular suit and smiled and said the lasagne was nearly ready.

He took a seat beside Greg on the sofa. “And how are you?”

“I’m good actually,” he said. “Better than I thought I was going to be.”

“And you’re filing for divorce?”

“Yup. Already put in some paperwork. Jane and I want the same thing, it’s pretty simple. We don’t share bank accounts or own a house together, so it’s all a pretty cut and dry split. Not great. But not difficult as far as being practical is concerned.”

Mycroft nodded. “I really am very sorry.”

“It’s alright. Win some and lose some.” Greg smiled. “Or at least, I do. I guess you don’t lose very often.”

“Not if I can help it, no.”

Greg laughed. “So, how is everything going in the world of Mycroft then?”

“It’s not too bad, thank you. Things are rather swimming along.”

“And Moriarty?”

“Appears to be rather obsessed. He keeps getting in contact.”

Greg frowned. “With you?”

“Yes, well. That isn’t a matter you need concern yourself with.”

“Even though I am concerned?”

“You have no need to be. It’s all perfectly in-hand.”

Greg studied him a moment before nodding and taking a drink. “Alright, yeah. I believe you.”

“Thank you. I’ll just check on dinner.”

Greg sighed as he watched him go. Mycroft probably had the Moriarty situation sorted as he said, but as much as Greg had piles of confidence in him, it wasn’t always enough to just accept Mycroft saying it was fine. It wasn’t exactly fine when a serial killer, bomb-wielding psycho was in contact with you, was it?

Greg wasn’t even worried for himself. He was worried about Sherlock. And John. And Mycroft. And gosh, he really was confronting some things about himself that evening if he was acknowledging that he worried about Mycroft.

He worried about the dark circles under his eyes and the smile that never quite reached them. Greg had seen his face light up before. A happy smile, where Mycroft always looked mildly surprised his face had moved in such a way. And Greg would do near enough anything to find that smile.

Because Mycroft was ridiculously attractive even when he didn’t smile, but when he did… well…

“It’s done,” Greg heard Mycroft call from the kitchen. Greg carried their drinks through. He set about laying the knives and forks on the table while Mycroft dished up.

Greg took a seat at the table, casting an eye on Mycroft’s back and down to his arse. He smiled to himself, thinking that at one point, he’d been lucky enough to get below the layers of clothes. Lucky. Privileged. To be that close to Mycroft at his most unravelled and relaxed. When his mind appeared to shut down for all of 30 seconds. A meeting of bodies and a sharing of everything they had.

And all that was five years ago.

Greg hesitated as he took a drink. Five years ago, and he was still thinking about Mycroft’s naked body and feeling some excited fizzle in his chest at the idea of seeing him? Was that quite right? Was that how it was meant to be, five years on?

He should have got over him completely and now it felt like it was staring him in the face. He never did get over it. Not really. He moved on, forced himself to move on, but it was never really and truly done. Not when they were still regularly brushing past each other, savouring small contacts and brief glances at each other.

And oh holy shit, but it was too late to give it any more thought, because Mycroft was bringing their food over.

Greg smiled at him. “This really smells amazing,” he said, but his heart had upped the ante in his chest, beating far faster than if Mycroft simply meant nothing.

“I enjoyed making it,” Mycroft replied. "I wish I had more time to cook.”

“I’m getting better,” Greg said. “When Caroline first left I think I was terrible. But I’ve got quite a good selection of meals now. I’ll have to invite you over. I’m sorry I haven’t.”

“Not at all, I’m sure our schedules rarely complement each other. It’s far easier if I tell you when I’m free.”

“Yeah, but when you’re free, I can still cook. And I will, alright?”

“I would like that.”

“Me too.”

They smiled over at each other before Greg started his meal first, as always. He groaned around a mouthful and Mycroft laughed before beginning his own food.

“I take it back,” Greg said. “I’m not cooking for you, you’re too good.”

Mycroft smiled. “That’s not true, but thank you.”

Greg laughed. “It’s true.”

“Greg. Really and truthfully, how are you?”

Greg frowned, hesitating for a second. He had another mouthful. “Really and truthfully?”

Mycroft nodded.

Greg shrugged in response. “Better than I should be maybe. Not finding it as difficult as I did the first time we split up. And not as difficult as it was with Caroline either. It’s the right thing and I know that.”

“And how is she?”

“No idea really. We’ve only spoken a bit through text trying to sort the divorce out and stuff.”

“I fear I have been a poor…” Mycroft frowned. “I fear I’ve been a poor friend to you.”

Greg smiled a bit. “No, don’t worry, you haven’t been.”

Mycroft nodded. “Nonetheless, I intend to make it up to you. I have some new films to watch.”

Greg stared at him. Mycroft bought films for them to watch… together? Was that… was he reading too much into that? “Right,” he said. “Well, great. I can’t wait to choose one.”

“They were all Anthea’s recommendations.”

“I bet she picked some good ones.” Greg set down his knife and fork and leaned back in his chair. “Now that was good. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Want a hand washing up?”

“You really don’t need to.”

“Yeah, but I’m doing it anyway.” Greg stood up and carried their plates over to the sink. “Wash or dry?”

“I believe it’s my turn to wash.”

Greg laughed and turned the taps on for him. Mycroft poured in the washing up liquid. “How is it you’re so neat and Sherlock’s place is a tip?” Greg asked.

Mycroft smiled. “He is very much like a hurricane. Destruction everywhere.”

Greg laughed and found a tea-towel. He leaned against the counter as Mycroft washed the lasagne dish up and handed it to Greg. He dried it and put it on the rack. “So what weather were you as a kid then then?” Greg asked. “The calm before the storm?”

Mycroft smiled. “How very apt.”

Greg grinned as he took a plate from him. “I just have this image of you as a kid reading and then Sherlock coming along and ripping the pages out because you weren’t paying attention to him.”

“Remarkably accurate,” Mycroft said, but he had a soft smile on his face.

Greg grinned and washed up the last fork. Mycroft emptied the sink and dried his hands while Greg topped up their wine and carried it through to the living room. From the kitchen, he heard Mycroft’s phone ring.

“Greg, will you choose a film while I answer this?”

“Usual place?”

“Yes.”

Greg walked through to Mycroft’s office, retrieving the box from the cabinet. There were several more DVDs than he remembered. He picked up All The President’s Men. He’d intended to watch it once when it was on the television, but he’d fallen asleep in front of it.

When he walked back into the living room Mycroft was still on the phone. Greg carefully took the picture down from the front of the television and put the disk in. He could hear parts of Mycroft’s conversation. “Oh for goodness sake, why does everything need a name? As if Bond Air wasn't bad enough. No don’t, for the love of all that is holy, actually call it the Goldfinger Commission.”

Greg smiled to himself as he dimmed the lights in the living room.

“Fine!” came Mycroft’s exasperated voice. “Fine, if you insist. I don’t want another phone call for the rest of the evening. Well, yes, that is obviously the exception. Can you please just for one night, manage without me?”

Mycroft walked into the living room and shook his head. “I’m finished. I’m running away to Spain and buying a shack by the sea. I can’t cope with this incompetence day after day. Apparently we can’t sign off the paperwork unless we name every single operation and task that goes through my office.”

Greg laughed. “You alright there?”

“I’m calm. I am a vision of serenity.”

Greg raised his eyebrows. “Uh huh.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes and wandered to the sofa. “Or I will be when I have that wine. What film did you choose?”

“All The President’s Men.”

“Ah, Nixon. I’m looking forward to this one.”

Greg grabbed the remote as Mycroft took a seat on the sofa and hit the play button. “Comfy enough?” Greg asked.

“Fine, thank you.” Greg shuffled in against the cushions, taking hold of his wine. “Come on,” Mycroft said as the titles came up.

Greg glanced at him. “What?”

Mycroft glanced pointedly at his legs and then at Greg’s face. Greg let out a slow smile and he swung his legs up onto the sofa and onto Mycroft’s lap. Mycroft’s hand found his knee. Greg smiled and turned his attention back to the television.

He tried to ignore Mycroft’s hand throughout the film. It was hot through his jeans. A reassuring presence. And then Mycroft’s thumb began to move back and forth over the same spot. Greg just felt content.

Mycroft’s eyes had begun to close as the credits began to roll. Greg glanced at him and laughed. “Reckon it’s past your bedtime,” he said, standing up and stretching.

Mycroft smiled lazily up at him. “I agree. I enjoyed that though.

“Me too.” Greg looked at his watch. “Yeah, well, should definitely head back anyway. Cheers for a great night.

“Don’t forget your books,” Mycroft reminded him.

“Good point.” Greg took them from the table and put them into a plastic bag.

“I’ll walk you to the door,” Mycroft said.

Greg smiled at him and started towards it. He reached the door and looked round at Mycroft. “Right then,” Greg said. “Thanks for dinner.”

“You’re welcome.”

Greg stretched his hand out and Mycroft took it. They shook hands and Greg smiled at him. Their hands stopped moving. Their eyes were still locked together. Mycroft’s lips were parted, a small frown between his eyes. And Greg took a step towards him. Their hands remained tight together.

And Greg lifted his other hand. He brushed the pad of his thumb against Mycroft’s cheekbone. Mycroft’s eyes fluttered closed for a moment. His tongue flicked out to wet his lips. Greg’s hand closed over his cheek. Mycroft’s cheek. Mycroft. Mycroft Holmes. And oh yes. Greg stroked his thumb against his cheek. He licked his own lips. Mycroft’s eyes flicked down to his mouth and then back to his eyes.

And here was the choice. Do you risk it all, throw a dice, put all your money on one square, just for one kiss? Do you put your heart on the line and open your soul, all for one meeting of lips? And it was now or it was never and Greg truly believed that. And it was Mycroft, and hell, if anyone on the entire planet was worth a risk, and the throw of the dice, then it was him. It was Mycroft Holmes.

Greg tilted his head. They were so close, he could feel Mycroft’s soft exhale of breath against his cheek. Greg heard himself let out the tiniest, faintest of sounds. One more move and they would be kissing. Kissing Mycroft Holmes.

A shrill sound broke the tension. Mycroft stepped away, letting go of Greg’s hand as he retrieved the phone from his pocket. He looked away from Greg. Greg let out a long breath.

“Hello?” Mycroft said. His voice tightened. “You found him. Where? I am on my way. Immediately.” Mycroft hung his phone up. He looked at Greg. His eyes flashed with regret for a moment, before his expression became unreadable. “Greg. I… I have to go.”

Greg nodded. “Course. Yeah.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine. It’s work. I know it is.” He forced a smile and opened the door. It closed immediately behind him and he stepped out into the corridor. He left Crusader House full of more questions than he had before he’d arrived and not one single answer. And he was furious at Jane for putting all those thoughts in his head.

Because now he couldn’t shake it. Maybe he really always had been in love with Mycroft. And with that came certain disaster. 


	49. I'll Be Waiting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this has taken a few days, it just wouldn't co-operate. My brain finally engaged yesterday and through a hangover I managed to get this out.  
> Thank you miss_anthr0pe, JustLookFrightenedAndScuttle, Abbennett, beccab, KingTaran, vanya, WhiskeySally, Maliciouspixie5, psychicdreams, ainraatheexplorer, sarah, CommunionNimrod, Velma, Novels, ladyxdarcy, Mice, Jaeh, OwlinAutumn, Atiabis (that was such a gorgeous long message - thank you!), Per_Solem, cltc75, Copgirl1964, theconsultinghobbit, MoonRiver, ofnovember ivefoundmygoldfish (melonpanparade) and UnicornSoulHunter. I adore you all.

_February, 2011_

Oh hell, what was he _thinking_? Greg was tortured by that thought the entire night, every single time he woke up. And no. Forget _what_ was he thinking. More like _why_ wasn’t he thinking at all?

He so nearly went for it. Hey, Mycroft, remember that thing you and I used to have? Let me just snog your face off and then we can get right back to all the really good sex. Because apparently, I have feelings for you. Someone shoved that idea in my head and now, and now…

And now. Now what? The thought of Mycroft lingered at the edge of his consciousness. Every knock of his office door had him looking up in double-quick speed to check who it was. No room had ever felt as empty as his bedroom.

He was fucking furious. Furious with Jane for telling him. Unjustifiably angry with Mycroft for letting their mouths get that close. And raging at that stupid person who decided to call Mycroft at that moment.

He should have just done it. When Mycroft said ‘I’m sorry’, Greg should have just crushed their mouths together and said ‘look, I like you. Call me sometime.’ But life wasn’t anything like the movies. The perfect kiss between two people didn’t signal the closing credits.

Even a kiss between two people whose lives occasionally collided was never The End. It was always just a messy beginning, a confusing middle or a very abrupt beginning, middle and end all wrapped up in one. And that was exactly what Greg thought that kiss would have been.

Flushed faces, avoided eye contact and Mycroft sounding like he was reading from a very well-rehearsed script when he said ‘I don’t believe in feelings and relationships and if you care for me even the smallest bit then this is over.’

Greg pushed his feelings as far from his mind as he could. He had no reason to bother himself with them.

 

* * *

 

_March, 2011_

Greg knew it had been too long since he had got in touch with his father when he received the third phone call. He booked a seat on the Eurostar. He sat back with a newspaper, reading the latest football news.

At the station, he changed trains and then changed again. When the taxi arrived outside the farm house he hesitated for a moment on the pathway outside before walking to the front door. The last time he had been here, he’d been with Jane.

Rosa answered it and beamed at him as she kissed him on both cheeks. “Greg, darling, come in.”

Greg smiled at her. “Thanks. You alright?”

“Oh, yes, well, thank you. Your father’s knee is playing up. He’s in a right grouchy mood, but don’t let him bother you. Water, tea, coffee or lemonade?”

“Lemonade please.”

Rosa smiled. “Go on through. Your father’s in the conservatory.”

Greg walked through the house, petting a cat along the way, before he found his father sat in a chair with a book. Christophe Lestrade looked up at him and put the book down on the table. “It’s nice to see you, Greg,” he said.

Greg took a seat. “You too.”

“A good journey?”

“Yeah, it was alright. Nice not to drive.”

“Certainly.”

Rosa walked through, carrying a tray of drinks. “I don’t know why you’re not sat outside,” she said. “It’s a lovely day.”

“I might go out actually,” Greg said. “Grab some rays.”

“I’ll join you,” Rosa said.

Greg’s dad looked between them both. “Later,” was all he said as he returned to his book. Greg smiled at Rosa and followed her through the house. He grabbed one of Mycroft’s books from his suitcase on the way and then took a seat on one of the sun loungers, pulling his shirt off in the process. Rosa walked down the garden and returned to some gardening.

Christophe joined Greg a few hours later. He took a seat in the other lounger. Greg glanced at him and then returned to the book.

“A shame about Jane,” his dad said.

“Mmm,” Greg replied, turning the page.

“Not entirely surprising though.”

Greg didn’t turn his head away from the book as he replied with another non-committal “mmm.” But he stopped reading.

“There are plenty of fish in the sea, as the saying goes.”

“Yes, dad.”

Christophe Lestrade laughed and shook his head. “I’m not being particularly helpful am I?”

Greg grinned at him. “It’s fine.”

“Then why are you still wearing your wedding ring?”

“I just haven’t got round to taking it off yet.”

Christophe rolled his eyes. “No, of course, it’s terribly hard to take jewellery off.”

“I’m avoiding the inevitable questions.”

“Does it matter if people know?” his dad asked.

“No. No, it doesn’t but they try and set me up on dates.”

“And what is the problem with that?”

Greg sighed. What was the problem with dates, indeed? Because none of them would be with the person he wanted them to be with.

“Have you met someone?” his dad asked.

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

Greg smiled a bit. “Not totally sure, no. But. I dunno.” Yes. Yes, he had met someone. Loved someone.

“Well, I think it’s good,” his father said. “Spending all your life alone won’t make you happy.” Greg nodded and turned his attention back to his book. “Might be time to take the wedding ring off though,” his dad added.

Greg just grunted his response.

He spent the rest of the week like that. Stretched out in the sun in a pair of shorts. It was hot for March. Enough to lie outside with a pair of sunglasses and a book.

On his final day there, he rolled over onto his back, watching as a cat padded past him. He could hear his dad and Rosa talking from the kitchen, though he couldn’t make out what either of them were saying. He stretched his arms up in front of him and saw the glint from his wedding ring as the sun hit the gold band.

Yeah. It was time to let go. He pulled it off his finger and tucked it into his pocket. His finger felt marginally lighter, but nothing else was different. He cringed a bit at the tan line left there. It was almost as obvious as the ring itself, if not worse. But it was done now and he wasn’t going to undo it.

 

* * *

 

Greg got home the next day. He dumped his suitcase on his bed. He unzipped it and began to make a pile of clothes to go in the washing machine when his phone rang. The number was withheld. He frowned. “Lestrade.”

“It’s Anthea.”

Greg sat down on the bed. “Hi. Everything alright?”

“Fine. Mr Holmes wants you to go to Baskerville.”

Greg frowned. He’d heard a bit about Baskerville. Somewhere in Devon he recalled. There’d been something on the TV about it. A big dog or something? “To Baskerville? Why?”

“Sherlock Holmes and John Watson are there.”

“I have to go to work tomorrow.”

“That will be taken care of,” Anthea informed him.

“I’ve got better things to do than chase after John and Sherlock. They’re big boys, they can look after themselves.”

“This isn’t a request. It’s more like an order.”

Greg snorted. “Wrong choice of words, Anthea. He can’t just order me around.”

“We would both be grateful.”

“I bet,” Greg muttered. “But nope. Unless the man himself shows up at my door with a bottle of his good whiskey and tells me exactly what’s up, I’m not moving.”

“Very well. Sorry to disturb you.” Anthea hung up and Greg rolled his eyes.

He dumped his clothes in the washing machine and turned his television on. Collapsing onto the sofa, he pondered how to the spend the rest of his day.

It was an hour later when there was a knock on the door. Greg opened it. He pressed his lips together as he looked at Mycroft who held up a bottle of whiskey with one eyebrow quirked up.

Greg sighed and stepped aside to let him in. “I’ve just got back from holiday,” he said.

“Yes, so I see.” Mycroft put the bottle down on the table. “It’s one trip, Greg. A few days, maximum.”

“Just cut to the chase then,” Greg muttered irritably. “Want a cuppa?”

Mycroft hesitated for a moment. “No,” he finally said. Greg studied him for a second, surprised at how he had wavered. He was used to Mycroft making quick decisions.

Greg walked into the kitchen and turned the kettle on. He pulled himself a mug out, spooning out some coffee. He glanced back into the living room where Mycroft was stood looking at Greg’s bookcase. Greg bit his lip and pulled out a second mug.

He poured them both a coffee and Mycroft accepted it with a murmured ‘thank you’. Greg raised his eyebrows as he sat down. That Mycroft had accepted the drink so easily after saying no was a surprise too. Greg took a seat on the opposite sofa.

“I’m worried about Sherlock’s state of mind,” Mycroft said.

“What’s wrong with him?”

“He’s waiting.”

“Waiting for what?” Greg asked.

“Moriarty’s next move. And Sherlock abhors waiting.”

“I know. So what will it be?”

“Moriarty’s next move? Impossible to say. Fortunately Sherlock has found a case, and one entirely unconnected to Moriarty. But it is in Baskerville, which of course, is under my jurisdiction and I don’t trust him to avoid a national scandal.”

Greg snorted. “Yeah. So, what can I do then?”

“Keep an eye on him. Observe how he is. And pay particular attention to him on the way home. If he is finding waiting as difficult as I expect…”

“Drugs.”

“Indeed.”

Greg sighed. “Alright. But you know, John could take care of him.”

“John informed me he was desperate for cigarettes. And you have seen him through far worse than John has.”

“Great. Just great.” Greg took a sip of his coffee. Mycroft had turned his head to the side, studying the bookcase again. His brows were knitted together, lips parted a fraction. Greg had never seen him so distracted. “Mycroft. What’s wrong?”

Mycroft’s head turned back abruptly. “Wrong? Why would anything be wrong?”

“You don’t… you don’t seem yourself. What’s up?”

“Nothing.”

“I know you well enough to know that’s not true. What’s going on?”

“Nothing is going on, I’m fine.”

“Mycroft…”

“Leave it alone!” Mycroft snapped at him.

Greg raised his eyebrows. He felt his heckles rising, but he pushed his frustration back. “Fine. Fine. Forget I asked.”

“Thank you.”

Greg tapped his fingers against his leg. He hadn’t realised until now just how much Mycroft had stopped confiding in him. He wanted nothing more than to sit beside him on the sofa and rub his arm and tell him whatever it was would be sorted. And why couldn’t he just do that? He moved forward to put the mug on the table.

“Don’t,” Mycroft said.

Greg frowned at him. “Don’t want?”

“I know what you’re thinking, but don’t come over here.”

“I wasn’t going to,” Greg lied, frowning. “What does it matter if I was anyway?”

“What very nearly occurred at my flat quite frankly shouldn’t have done. It was a brief moment of foolishness on my part and a thought I shouldn’t have indulged in.”

Greg felt his chest tighten. “What because I nearly kissed you?”

“Let’s talk about Baskerville.”

“No, hang on.”

Mycroft raised his eyebrows.

Greg sighed and slouched back into the chair. They’d deal with this another time. “Fine,” Greg said. “Baskerville.”

“Sherlock stole my access card and is causing all sorts of problems in pursuit of a hound.”

“Hound?”

“Let John explain it all when you arrive.” Mycroft picked up his briefcase and opened it. He took out a gun.

Greg stared at him. “What the hell?”

Mycroft put it on the table between them. “I insist you take this.”

“No.”

“It’s all quite legal.”

“I’m not taking it. We’ve talked about guns before. You know I don’t like them.”

“Think of it not as a weapon but as insurance.”

“Insurance?” Greg repeated. “Oh come off it.”

“What if Sherlock were in danger? You would have nothing but your own strength to help him. You have always protected my brother, why not do so now?”

“Sherlock’s always in trouble.”

“I would prefer it if you returned from Devon unharmed.” Greg narrowed his eyes. “All three of you,” Mycroft added.

“I probably don’t even remember how to use it.”

“Nonsense.” Mycroft leaned forward and picked the gun back up. He held it out to Greg.

Greg bit his lip before reaching forward. But instead of taking hold of the weapon, he curled his fingers around Mycroft’s wrist. He didn’t hold on tightly and Mycroft could have easily pulled out of his grip when he wanted. But instead, his surprised eyes flickered up to meet Greg’s.

“I won’t use it to kill someone,” Greg said.

“Understood.”

“And this is a one-time thing. If you ever offer me a weapon again. Well, I don’t know what I’ll do, but it’s not going to be pleasant.”

“It’s for your own protection.”

“Like hell it is.” Greg let go of Mycroft’s wrist and took the gun from him, immediately putting it back down on the table. “This is about you not listening to me. I’ve told you what I think about guns, but oh no, Mycroft knows best.”

“I do know best.”

“Yeah,” Greg said as he rolled his eyes. “Course you do.”

Mycroft narrowed his eyes at him. “I’m not doing this to make a point.”

“You could send anyone to keep an eye on Sherlock.”

“And who would he work with?”

“I’m not there to work with him. He’s got John for that. You’re sending me there to keep an eye on him. Like a bloody child-minder.”

“There is no one I trust with my brother’s protection more than you,” Mycroft said. “And I am not talking about his life. I am talking about drugs. About his boredom. About waiting for Moriarty to make a move.”

“Then stop waiting for God’s sake. You have everything at your disposal. It would make Sherlock happy.”

“It’s not as simple as simply taking him out. It’s a terrorist organisation, Greg. Someone will step into his shoes. And another. And another. We have to tread cautiously.”

“No. You actually have to tread at all. Look, I’m not privy to all the details and plans and projects and whatever the hell it is you’re responsible for. But this man has been making our lives hell for years. And he will keep doing it.”

“We will sort it out.”

“You better. Because I know where Sherlock’s coming from. I’m sick of waiting too. And Mycroft.” Mycroft frowned at him. “Look, Mycroft. I shouldn’t, but I do. I’m worried about you. And Sherlock. Mostly you. For all you’re going on about him returning to drugs and stuff, it’s nothing compared to what I think you’re returning to.”

“And what exactly is that?” Mycroft asked.

“When was the last time you were actually happy?”

“What’s that got to do with anything?”

“You and me need to talk, Mycroft.”

Mycroft's eyebrows rose. “Is that not what we are doing now?”

“Oh ha, bloody ha,” Greg muttered. “Come on. I’m talking about us.”

“We’re not having this conversation.” Mycroft stood up and closed his briefcase, picking up his umbrella.

“When you get rid of Moriarty, we’re going to talk, you and me,” Greg told him. “We’re going to have it out and sort this once and for all.”

“I don’t even know what you’re referring to.”

Greg snorted. “What? Mycroft Holmes is oblivious? You _know_ , Mycroft. I know you know.” I know you know I love you. Mycroft’s lips pressed tightly together. “Just go,” Greg said. “We’ll do this another time, when Moriarty’s done and sorted, we’re having a chat, you and me, over bottles of wine and posh steak. So, you’ve got a bit of time to work out if it’s a yes or a no.”

Mycroft’s face remained unreadable. “Good luck at Baskerville.”

Greg nodded. “Good luck with Moriarty.”

Mycroft gave him one last look and turned for the door. He reached it and stopped. He turned around and bit his lip. “I’m sorry about the gun. I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“Cheers,” Greg said. “I actually appreciate you saying that.”

Mycroft gave him a curt nod and left. Greg let out a long sigh. He stood up and set about re-packing his suitcase. He picked the gun up last. He felt the heavy, cold weapon in his hand. He toyed with the idea of leaving it there, but he closed it in his suitcase instead. He wouldn’t take it out anyway.

 

* * *

 

He threw the suitcase on the bed when he arrived the next morning. He hadn’t seen John and Sherlock yet, so decided to wander back downstairs for a pint.

He was just reaching for it when he heard Sherlock’s voice and turned to look outside. “What the hell are you doing here?” Sherlock demanded.

Greg rolled his eyes as he looked up at him. “Well, nice to see you too,” Greg said. “I’m on holiday, would you believe?”

“No, I wouldn’t,” Sherlock replied, giving off an air of petulance.

Greg took his sunglasses off and said hello to John. If John was surprised to see him, he wasn’t taking it as badly as Sherlock when he simply said, “Greg.”

“I heard you were in the area,” Greg said to them both. “What are you up to? You after this hound of hell like on the telly?”

“I’m waiting for an explanation, Inspector,” Sherlock said. “Why are you here?”

“I’ve told you. I’m on holiday.”

“You’re brown as a nut. You’re clearly just back from your ‘holidays’.”

“Yeah, well I fancied another one.”

“Oh, this is Mycroft, isn’t it?” Sherlock said.

Greg sighed. That was quick. “No, look,” he started to protest.

“Of course it is! One mention of Baskerville and he sends down my handler to spy on me incognito. Is that why you’re calling yourself Greg?”

Greg stared at him.

“That’s his name,” John said.

Sherlock frowned. “Is it?”

“Yes,” Greg said. “If you’d ever bothered to find out. Look, I’m not your handler.” He picked his pint up. “And I don’t just do what your brother tells me.” Though generally when Mycroft did tell him to do something, he did it. But he did other things too. Sometimes he did what Sherlock told him to do. God, he was under both Holmes’ thumbs, wasn’t he?

And then John began to talk about receipts for meat. Greg found himself going through them, interrogating Gary and Billy about the dog. Greg finished with them and walked out.

“You know he’s actually pleased you’re here?” John said, following after him. Greg stared at John. “Secretly pleased,” John amended.

“Is he?” Greg asked. Well, if anyone knew, it had to be John. “That’s nice. I suppose he likes having all the same faces back together. Appeals to his… his…” Greg frowned trying to think of the right word.

“Asperger’s?” John offered. Greg smiled. They talked briefly about the dog when Greg decided to talk to the local police force.

To his immense surprise, they had no qualms about letting him in. Greg had a funny feeling an order may have come from up high, in the form of Holmes senior probably, but he didn’t ask. Instead he sat reading police reports about dogs on the Moors and studying maps of the area.

It was in the evening when Sherlock called. Greg had spent much of the day with the police and then went to have a dinner at a nearby pub. He sat by himself eating a burger and watching the football on the television.

He answered the phone. “Lestrade.”

“Lestrade. Get to the Hollow. Dewer’s Hollow, now. And bring a gun.” Sherlock hung up and Greg stared down at his phone. Bring a gun. Somehow Sherlock had known. Not even bothering to finish the last of his chips, Greg left the pub, rushing back to the hotel.

He ran up to his room and pulled the weapon out of his bag. He held it flat on his palm. ‘Bring a gun’, Sherlock had said. That only spelt trouble. Trouble followed Sherlock around like a loyal dog.

But there was no time to consider his morals. Greg grabbed a torch and left the hotel, driving to the hollow, glad he had spent time studying the maps earlier that day.

It was pitch black apart from some light from the moon and his torch. He stumbled in the dark, tripping over a tree root as he went. He could hear talking as he approached and recognised Sherlock’s deducing. He saw the silhouettes as Sherlock continued to speak.

“Sherlock!” Greg called down to him as he reached the bottom of the hollow. The man, Henry, sounded close to tears but Sherlock was being unusually reassuring, his voice soft and almost kind.

Aside from Henry’s fear and anguish, the situation was calm. Greg looked down at the gun in his hand, tempted to eject the magazine.

“There never was any monster,” Sherlock informed Henry.

Then there was a howl. Greg and John raised their torches to the top of the hollow, following the sound with the beams of light. Something was moving along the top, snarling. Greg had instinctively raised his gun when it moved, but he lowered it to his side now. He would not shoot tonight, he promised himself. They’d sort it.

Henry began to scream ‘no’ over and over. Greg’s heart was pumping and all he could do was stare. The creature turned its head. Its eyes glowed in the light and it continued to snarl.

John turned to him. “Greg, are you seeing this?” he asked.

Greg couldn’t make a sound. He just stared at John. Yeah, he was seeing.

“Right, he is not drugged, Sherlock, so what’s that?” Jonh asked. “What is it?”

“Alright!” Sherlock exclaimed. “It’s still here. But it’s just a dog. Henry! It’s nothing more than an ordinary dog!”

It didn’t look like an ordinary dog. Greg knew dogs. He’d lived with Louis for long enough and he never made a sound like that. He never howled like that. Like a wolf. The dog stretched up on its hind legs and howled.

“Oh my god,” Greg said as he stumbled backwards. The hound snarled and then began its descent into the hollow. “Oh Christ!”

Greg was glued to the spot. He felt like his body was trapped in a vice. Like he was surrounded - floor, ceiling, walls all around him. Like being in a lift, only worse, because there wasn’t an inch of space to move. And it was as though the walls were closing in, crushing him. The image of Thames water rising up around his car flashed into his mind.

He remembered using a headrest, desperately smashing at the window. He’d never felt terror like it. But this was even worse. His hands were shaking as he gripped onto the gun.

"It’s the fog!” Sherlock suddenly exclaimed. “The drug, it’s in the fog! Aerosol dispersal – that’s what it said in those records. Project HOUND – it’s the fog! A chemical minefield!”

Greg threw his arm over his face, trying to stop from breathing it in. But the hound was getting closer. For moments, the walls surrounding him disappeared. In a second, they were back, worse than before.

There was the hound. And suddenly it wasn’t the hound. It was a man holding onto an eight-year-old boy in a red t-shirt and no, no, no, please, God, no. And the child was so badly injured, crying out. He was covered in blood. He was screaming. “No!” he shouted. And “stop” and “help!”

The hound was back in place of the man and the boy.

“For God’s sake, kill it! Kill it!” a voice Greg didn’t recognise shouted out.

Greg shot once. He missed. The man was back with the child, but Greg was already on the trigger, shooting once, twice more, before he’d even fully appreciated what he was shooting at. But in avoiding aiming for the dog and the child, he missed with both shots.

The sound of more gun shots rang out, and the man and the boy fell backwards. Greg recoiled. His hand shook. What had he done? It had all been so fast, and he wasn’t sure if the fatal gun shots had been his or someone else’s. But the child was dead, on the floor, and it was all because of him.

But the truth was revealed again. It was a dog. It seemed smaller now, lying dead on the ground.

Greg was glued to the spot. He saw John had a gun. Whether it was himself or John, someone had shot the creature. But Greg had seen the death of an eight-year-old boy in the red t-shirt. He felt sick to his stomach. It wasn’t real, but that hardly mattered, because the terror was real.

Greg covered his mouth again to avoid breathing in the fog. Sherlock was dragging Henry towards the dog, making him look at it. Greg couldn’t get the image out of his mind. He rubbed his face. He dropped the gun to the ground. He wanted to bury it in layers and layers of mud so he’d never have to see nor touch it again.

“You bastard,” Henry screamed, lurching for the man Greg didn’t recognise. Henry had the man on the ground, continuing to yell at him. Greg ran over, trying to haul him off. John ran to help, and together they managed to pull him off.

Sherlock was speaking and John was warning him about timing, but Greg hardly heard a word they were saying. He focused all his energy on Henry, gripping his arm to keep him from running back over. Greg hoped it was reassuring.

In the back of his mind, Greg knew he needed to calm down, but there was no incoming relief. Just dread. His heart was still in his mouth.

There was another growl. Greg stumbled a little at the sight of the hound. John was quick. He aimed, fired, and hit the target. And the old man ran off. Sherlock went straight after him. Greg picked his gun back up from the floor.

Allowing himself one more look - it was just a dog, not a dead child - Greg started after him, John hot in pursuit. They ran through the woods. Trees and roots got in the way and it was too dark to see far ahead.

They got to a clearing. There was a bang and explosion of light as fire burst into the air.

“It’s over, Henry,” Sherlock murmured. “It’s all over.”

Greg closed his eyes. “We… we should go back,” he said, but his voice was unfamiliar and trembling.

John glanced at him and raised his eyebrows as if to ask if Greg was okay. Greg just nodded a bit, but he held the gun out in front of him. “Take this off me, please,” he managed.

Sherlock did just that. “Inspector, I presume you have your car?”

Greg nodded. “Yeah.”

“Take us back to Henry’s now.”

Greg just nodded again, turning his back. They walked in silence back through to the hollow and towards where Greg had parked. He had left the hazard lights on to make it easier to find. He got in behind the wheel, Sherlock taking the passenger seat. Sherlock glanced at him. “What did you see?” he asked.

Greg shook his head. “Doesn’t matter.”

“But you saw something,” Sherlock said. “Something that wasn’t a hound.” Greg started the engine. “What was it?” Sherlock continued to press.

“Leave it, mate,” Greg said, turning his CD player on. “Just leave it.” The music was the only sound as he drove Henry back to his home. Sherlock and John went in with him, but Greg drove straight back to the hotel.

He managed to walk up the stairs and into his room as if on auto-pilot. He closed the door and fell to his knees. He rubbed his hands over his face. With a trembling hand, he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out his phone. He searched out his contacts and found Mycroft’s name.

It rang eight times before going to voicemail. Greg sighed and ended the call without saying a word. He sat up on his knees, using the edge of the bed to pull himself up from the floor. His phone rang. Mycroft’s name appeared.

Greg shuffled onto the bed and answered it. “Lestrade,” he said tiredly.

“What’s wrong?”

“It’s all sorted,” Greg told him. “Just wanted to let you know it’s sorted.”

“What was it?”

“Some sort of fog making people scared and stuff. There was a dog and John shot it and it’s dead now. I guess there’s a lot of stuff you’ll need to clear up and classified information or something. But it’s done. Our side of it’s over.”

“Thank you.”

Silence fell over them. Greg stared at the wall. He sighed and closed his eyes.

“Greg, what happened?” Mycroft asked, a rare tenderness in his tone.

“The fear drugs,” Greg said. “I didn’t just see the dog. I saw…” He shook his head.

“I understand,” Mycroft murmured. There was a moment’s pause. “Where are you now?”

“Back at the hotel.”

“Get into bed and close your eyes.”

Greg was about to mutter a protest, but instead he said: “I’ll just put the phone on the side. One sec.” He put the phone on the bedside cabinet and pulled his coat off. He shuffled out of the remainder of his clothes until he was just in his boxers. He turned the main light out and slid under the duvet. He grabbed the phone. “Yeah. Done.”

“Good. Put the phone on loudspeaker.”

Greg frowned, but did as instructed. He turned the lamp off, lying on his back in the dark.

“I was in Mexico a few weeks ago, and was told the most splendid story,” Mycroft said. “I thought you’d like it.”

Greg managed a smile. “Alright then.”

“Back in the 1800s, a man named Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna was an army general in control of the Mexican army.”

“Mmm.”

“He went to war with the French at Veracruz, where he was hit in his leg by cannon fire. The leg had to be amputated. But after the war, he arranged to have the leg buried in a full state funeral, with all the honours that go with it.”

Greg laughed. “What? With a gun salute and stuff?”

“I can only imagine. But he was not one to sit and do nothing. He re-entered politics and used to wave his prosthetic leg above his head so people would remember the sacrifice he made to the country. He became president five times.”

“There you go then, Mycroft,” Greg said, amused. “That’s a tip to pass onto a bloke you want to become Prime Minister.”

“Yes,” Mycroft agreed. “I never gave that campaigning tool any thought before, but I will certainly suggest it.”

Greg laughed, rolling onto his side.

“The prosthetic limb is at the Illinois Military Museum in America, having been taken by American troops during a war,” Mycroft continued. “Mexico has asked for it back several times.”

“What did you get up to in Mexico?”

“Meeting numerous delegates and attending meetings.”

“I’m sorry if I interrupted anything by calling,” Greg said. “It was just… I dunno.”

“You don’t need to explain, believe me. And you didn’t interrupt anything I didn’t mind being distracted from.”

Greg sighed, relaxing against the pillow. “Gonna sleep,” he said tiredly. “Been a pretty long day.”

“Thank you for going.”

“Welcome. John said Sherlock was pleased to see me. Thought he was lying, but maybe. Maybe. Quite nice that, isn’t it? Sherlock might actually like me. Doesn’t know my bloody name though.”

Mycroft chuckled. “Of course, it’s only been six years.”

“Exactly. Bloody cheek of it.” Greg smiled to himself. “Gonna sleep. Good luck with your work and stuff.”

“Thank you. Have a pleasant sleep, and have a nice day tomorrow.”

“Yeah. Might wander around for a bit before heading back to London. Thanks for talking, Mycroft.”

“You’re very welcome.” Greg heard his phone beep as Mycroft hung up. He smiled to himself and closed his eyes. He drifted off quickly. 


	50. Fuck You, Prometheus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My lovely, lovely reviewing people. I adore you, Mice, orionmip, psychicdreams, JustLookFrightenedAndScuttle, ivefoundmygoldfish (melonpanparade), KingTaran, ladyxdarcy, OwlinAutumn, MoonRiver, CommunionNimrod, WhiskeySally, Jaeh, UnicornSoulHunter, vanya, ianuk and sherl_jawn :-)

_March, 2011_

Greg woke with a start. His whole body was shaking. He wiped his sweaty forehead with the back of his hand and reached for his phone. 4.42am. He closed his eyes for a moment but images from the nightmare were still imprinted in his mind.

He rolled onto his side, searching out a new angle to lie in, in the hope that it may allow his mind to stop misbehaving. It wasn’t as though he was unused to nightmares. If anything, with the terror of that night and the hound still fresh in his mind, the fear inside a nightmare could never be as bad.

But even so. He switched the lamp on, closing his eyes as they struggled to adjust to the light. He dragged himself out of bed to use the bathroom.

He was relieved to be leaving later that day. He just needed to get out of there.

 

* * *

 

He drove the three of them home a little after 11am. Sherlock had commandeered the passenger seat and was sat idly texting and surfing the web on his mobile while Greg and John discussed football.

“Lestrade, you have a case,” Sherlock said.

Greg glanced at him. “What do you mean?”

“A Turner masterpiece has been stolen from an auction house. It’s worth £1.7million. That’s in your jurisdiction, yes?”

“Yeah, probably,” Greg agreed. “See if I’ve got any messages from Donovan.” He fished his phone out of his pocket and handed it to Sherlock. “Wait, no! Give it to John to check.”

Sherlock ignored him and tapped away on his phone anyway. “The reports are already in your inbox.” Sherlock huffed. “And Gregson’s emailed to tell you he’s taking it.”

“Well, that’s fine with me,” Greg said.

“I want the case.”

Greg glanced at him. “You want a missing painting case?”

“I do.”

“Really?” John asked from behind them.

Greg frowned, thinking back to what Mycroft had said about Sherlock being bored. “If Gregson’s on it, then there’s nothing I can do,” Greg informed him.

“Lestrade,” was all Sherlock said in reply. Greg glanced at him as they reached a red traffic light. He was staring intently at Greg, and he pulled up his shirt sleeve to reveal a nicotine patch.

Greg nodded. He understood. “Alright. I’ll see what I can do, okay? But I can’t promise anything.”

“I’ll work without him,” Sherlock announced.

“Yeah, I bet,” Greg muttered. “Look, let me get back to the Yard and have a chat with him, alright? It might be he’ll be happy to have you on board.”

“Why do you want a stolen painting case?” John asked. “We’ve just solved a case.”

Sherlock stayed quiet and Greg just sighed. It wasn’t his place to get involved. By the time they had got back to London, Sherlock had decided he didn’t need Gregson’s permission and he would start looking into it immediately. He forced Greg to drop them off outside the auction house.

Sherlock walked straight inside, and John looked despairingly at Greg. “He’s going to be like this until Moriarty reveals himself again, isn’t he?”

Greg nodded. “Seen it before, mate. You’ve just got to keep him busy. Hopefully this will take him more than a few hours. I’ll keep an eye on the stuff going through my desk and if I can help in anyway, then I will.”

John half smiled and got out of the car, following Sherlock inside. Greg grabbed his phone from the passenger seat and text Mycroft.

 

 

MESSAGES  
4.14pm: Not worried about drugs at  
the moment. He’s found a new case.  
Will keep him busy. Thanks for last  
night.

 

MESSAGES Mycroft Holmes  
4.21pm: Appreciate the update. And  
anytime. M.

 

* * *

 

 It took Sherlock 10 days to solve the case of the missing Reichenbach painting. It was nine days longer than Greg was expecting it to take.

“Sherlock Holmes,” Gregson growled as he paced around Greg’s office. Sally was sat on the chair opposite Greg’s where they had been preparing statements for court.

“I don’t know what you want me to do,” Greg said to him. “He didn’t do anything illegal. Just went around asking questions. Anyone could have done it.”

“He’s an embarrassment to this building,” Gregson demanded.

“No, he’s not. You’re just embarrassed by him.”

“And how are you not? He solves your cases and you just accept it.”

“Well, yeah,” Greg confirmed. “What’s more important? Me being embarrassed or me solving the crime and getting someone locked up?”

“Have you seen the press?” Gregson asked, throwing some newspapers down on Greg’s desk. “Hero Of The Reichenbach. Turner Masterpiece Recovered by ‘Amateur’. Scotland Yard Embarrassed By Overlooked Clues.”

“Well, y’know, I haven’t exactly had time to look over it all,” Greg started, “but how you didn’t follow the Turner fan club link…”

“ _Lestrade_!” Gregson snapped at him. “You have to give him some boundaries.”

“Give Sherlock some boundaries?” Greg repeated. “And how the hell do you think I’ll be able to do that? Look, so what if we look a bit stupid-”

“-Have you read this?” Sally cut in. She began to read from the paper. “ _Sherlock Holmes of Baker Street has been investigating the art crime simply as a hobby, and yet he was able to follow the trail that led him to the famous work – a trail that Scotland Yard missed completely._ This doesn’t just just make us look stupid. It makes us look incompetent.” 

Greg sighed and shook his head. “Look, mate, I’m sorry this one didn’t work out.”

“They’re giving him a bloody award!” Gregson all but screamed at him.

“Yeah, well, he found a £1.7million painting, didn’t he?”

Gregson glared at him and stormed out of his office. Greg rolled his eyes and returned to his paperwork.

“He has a point,” Sally said.

“I know what you think of Sherlock,” Greg said. “But just leave it right now. We’ve got too much work to do.”

Sally nodded and returned to her work. 

 

* * *

 

 It was a few days later and they’d just had a guilty verdict in a high-profile fraud case. Greg was in a good mood, sat with his feet up on his desk with a coffee and a pastry.

Sally stormed in. “Sir, there’s been a break-in,” she said.

“Not our division,” Greg mumbled through a mouthful. Today was a good day. Not one for boring every day break-ins.

“You’ll want it,” she said.

“Why?”

“They've broken into the Tower of London,” she told him.

Greg raised his eyebrows and stared at her. “Right.” He jumped to his feet. “Right. Bloody hell.” He grabbed his phone as he ran out of his office, Sally close behind. He rang the Chief Superintendent. “I’m on the Tower of London case,” he said. “We’ve got it covered.”

“Very good, Lestrade. You have everyone you need at your disposal.”

“Cheers.” Greg hung up. They ran through the building into the car park. Greg jumped into his car. “What the hell is going on?” Greg asked as they pulled out of the car park. Other police cars and motorbikes were already screaming down the road.

Sally shook her head, looking through details on her phone. “Looks like the security was hacked,” she told him.

“Hacked into the Tower of bloody London security?” Greg repeated. “How?” Sally’s phone began to ring. “Tell them we’re already on our way.”

“There’s been another one,” she said. “Another break-in.” Greg glanced at her and stared. “Bank of England!” she announced.

Greg couldn’t speak for a moment. “Tower of London, Bank of England? What the hell is going on?” He put his foot down on the accelerator. “How is that even possible?”

“We’re on our way,” Sally said into the phone. “Lestrade-”

“Maximum back-up,” Greg said. “We’re gonna have to split our resources. Get them to bring in some outside help from other forces. We’ll need them.”

Sally relayed the instructions and hung up. No sooner had she done so, her phone went off again.

“What is it now?” Greg asked her as she answered.

“Pentonville Prison!” she informed him. Greg stared in disbelief.

“Oh no!” he managed to say, images of rioting prisoners coming into his mind.

“Teams are already at the Tower,” Sally announced to him.

“Armed officers?”

“Yeah.”

Greg nodded as he spotted the familiar Medieval building. Sally flashed her badge at security at the gate and Greg drove them through. Officers were already rushing into the building and Greg and Sally got out of the car, following them in.

A man was sat in the centre of the room on a throne, draped in royal finery and a crown. He lifted his hand and gave the royal wave, black eyes staring directly at Greg. “Hi!”

“What the hell are you waiting for?” Greg demanded. “Arrest him!”

Three armed officers went for him. The man didn’t flinch, but continued to eyeball Greg. Greg stared back.

“Oh, don’t take my crown,” the man whined as the officers cuffed him and took the priceless items from him. They stood, holding onto the treasures with eyes wide, knowing they’d never held anything so valuable in their hands before.

“Get him to the Yard,” Greg said.

The man looked back at him. He offered Greg an easy smile as he chewed his gum. Greg followed the officers out as they led the man into a police car. He seemed so casual. Relaxed.

Greg frowned and looked at his phone as it beeped.

 

MESSAGES Sherlock Holmes  
3.21pm: The break-ins. It’s Moriarty.  
SH

 

 _That_ was Moriarty? Greg felt a sense of dread in the pit of his stomach. He rang the Chief Superintendent. “We’ve got him,” Greg said. “Bloke called James Moriarty. I want to be the one to question him first.”

“Well done, Lestrade. It’s all yours.”

Greg thanked him and hung up. He glanced at Sally.

“Well, this was an interesting afternoon,” she said. 

 

MESSAGES Sherlock Homes  
3.24pm: I’m on my way. SH

 

Greg looked at Sally. “I want you to go back with them. We’re going to keep him waiting for as long as legally possible. I want every detail from Pentonville and the Bank of England by the time I get back.”

“Keep him waiting, sir?” Sally asked.

Greg nodded. “He’s kept us waiting for months. About time we turned the tables.”

Sally glanced at him. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“That man. That’s Moriarty. From John’s blog.”

“Oh. _Oh_.”

“Yeah.”

“Alright,” Sally said. “I’ll see you in a while.”

Greg nodded. He walked back into the building and text Mycroft.

 

MESSAGES  
3.31pm: We’ve got him. We’ve got  
Moriarty.

 

Sam Brockhurst joined Greg a few minutes later, and the two of them began questioning witnesses. Greg eventually left him to it and walked to the security room. He reviewed the footage over and over. ‘Get Sherlock’ the writing on the glass said.

A security guard explained their security strategies and how their CCTV worked. Eventually Sam led Sherlock and John to the room. Greg nodded at Sam and asked him to keep getting statements. Greg turned the footage on. “That glass is tougher than anything,” Greg said as they watched.

“Not tougher than crystallised carbon,” Sherlock replied. “He used a diamond.”

Greg tapped into the computer to show the incident from the other angle. ‘Get Sherlock’.

Sherlock sat back in his seat.

“Get Sherlock?” John read. “That’s what all this was about?”

“Dunno,” Greg said. “Sherlock? Thoughts?”

Sherlock just sat quietly. John glanced at him and then back at Greg.

“Play it again,” Sherlock finally said. Greg did as he was asked. He played it three times before Sherlock spoke again. “I need to go.”

“Go?” John asked. “Go where?”

Sherlock ignored the question. “Lestrade. Call Mycroft.”

Greg frowned. “Why?”

“Because no one knows more about interrogation than he does.”

Greg rolled his eyes. “You know we actually call them police interviews, not interrogations.”

“This isn’t an interview,” Sherlock said. Greg frowned at him, but Sherlock had already turned to leave.

“Sherlock!” Greg called after him.

“Just leave him,” John said. “What are you doing now?”

“Going back to the Yard for a little chat with our master security hacker, I guess,” Greg said. “Though, evidence for this one at least is pretty damning.” John nodded and stood up. “You need a lift back to Baker Street?” Greg asked him.

“Yeah, if you’re offering.”

Greg led him out of the building. “How’s he doing anyway?” Greg asked.

“Good, yeah. Are you really going to ring Mycroft?”

“Probably. I mean, I don’t need him to tell me how to do my job, but I imagine he’s got some pretty interesting ideas in that head of his.”

“Or he’s just like Sherlock and can’t resist telling people what to do.”

“Well, that is pretty accurate,” Greg agreed with a grin as they drove towards Baker Street. “But what can I do?”

Greg dropped John off and headed straight to the Yard. He held up his hand to Sally on his way through, holding his phone up to his ear as he called Mycroft. He walked into his office and closed the door.

“Hello?”

“Mycroft, it’s me,” Greg said. “Sherlock told me to give you a ring. We’ve got Moriarty here and I’m about to take him in for questioning. Any tips?”

“Tips? No.” Mycroft hesitated. “Well...”

“What?” Greg asked.

“He will try to get to you through whatever means possible. I would advise sticking to questions, and repeating them if he refuses to answer. Don’t get drawn into a conversation with him.”

“Alright.”

“He’ll find it mind-numbing. He won’t believe you’re anywhere close to his intellect, so he’ll find it all rather tiresome. You may be able to exploit that.”

“Okay. Cheers, Mycroft.”

“And Greg?”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t tell him anything about Sherlock. The man’s obsessed.”

“I promise,” Greg told him. “Don’t need to worry about that.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“I’ll gather any intelligence we have on the incidents at our end,” Mycroft said. “Perhaps we can arrange a meeting to go through it all? We can’t afford to lose this.”

“Yeah, cheers, Mycroft. That would be great. I’ve got to go, but tell me when you’re sorted and we’ll arrange a meeting.”

“Wonderful. Best of luck with Moriarty.”

“Cheers.” Greg hung up and nodded at Sally. “Reckon we’ve kept him waiting long enough?”

Sally shrugged. “Up to you.”

Greg looked at his watch. “Might as well start now. I have a feeling this could be a long one.”

It took 10 minutes for the officers to take Moriarty to the interview room. He refused a lawyer. “How we doing this?” Sally asked as they stood outside the room.

“Just the usual,” Greg told her. “But don’t mention Sherlock.”

“What? Why not?”

“Just trust me on this one.” Greg took a deep breath and opened the door. Moriarty looked up at him with his dark eyes. Greg and Sally took a seat and Greg turned the tape recorder on. He read the man his rights, while Moriarty continued to stare into Greg’s eyes. It was very disconcerting. Moriarty smiled at Greg and folded his arms.

“Where were you at 3pm this afternoon?” Greg asked him.

Moriarty raised on eyebrow, the smirk on his face never dropping. He glanced at Sally and then back at Greg. Repulsion rippled through Greg’s body. This man had tried to kill Sherlock. He’d tried to kill John. He was responsible for killing 12 in a block of flats, and wrapping a child up in Semtex. He had arranged for one of Greg’s PCs to have him shunted into the Thames.

Apparently Moriarty was using his right to remain silent.

“You can be quiet if you want,” Greg said. “But it can harm your defence in court.”

Moriarty just continued to stare at Greg.

“Where were you at 3pm this afternoon?” Sally asked, repeating the earlier question.

Greg had met a lot of criminals in his life. He’d never met one who appeared quite so inherently evil. Unhinged. But he refused to look away. Instead, he held Moriarty’s piercing gaze. Apparently that wasn’t the best idea, because if anything, Moriarty’s expression became more intense.

Greg wanted to shuffle in his seat. He wanted to look away. But he refused to recoil to this man. “I’ve got all day,” Greg said instead. “In fact, if I stay here long enough, I reckon someone might take pity on me and do all my paperwork for me.”

Moriarty smiled. “You’re a poor liar,” he said.

“Where were you at 3pm this afternoon?”

Moriarty yawned.

“Alright. Did you break into the security at the Tower of London?”

The criminal started to look around the interview room as though analysing it. He sneered and looked back at Greg.

The pattern continued for an hour. Greg and Sally fired questions at him. He didn’t say a word.

“Did you hack the security for the Bank of England?”

Moriarty suddenly began to speak. “This is so boring! Come on, Detective Inspector, ask something interesting.”

“How did you break into the security for the Tower Of London?” Greg asked.

Moriarty just smiled and turned his attention to Sally. “Oh, Sergeant Donovan, how do you put up with with our great Detective Inspector here? Look at him, he’s just so heroic. Running around with Sherlock Holmes, saving lives and solving crimes.” Moriarty tilted his head as he watched her. “Sergeant Donovan. Not a fan of Mr Holmes?”

“How did you break into the Tower of London security?” Sally asked him.

“Everyone is just lapping up Sherlock’s every word,” Moriarty continued. “Little desperate kittens with a saucer of milk. Ooh, but not you. Not you, Sergeant Donovan.” Moriarty chuckled to himself. “He’s too perfect, isn’t he? Our Sherlock. Too clever. How on earth does he solve all those crimes?”

He turned to Greg. “And what a pity about that little boy Jamall Milone,” Moriarty said. “How many years has it been since that morning when you found his body? And you still haven’t solved it. I could have solved it in my sleep.”

Greg felt his whole body tense up. Jamall Milone. No one had said his name to Greg in years. Hell, he hadn’t even said the name to himself. He had tried so hard to make the eight-year-old boy in the red t-shirt anonymous in his own mind. To pretend he wasn’t real, that it was all a figment of an overactive imagination.

Somehow Moriarty knew about Jamall Milone. Greg tried to hold his gaze, but he knew he was clenching his fist so hard under the table that the knuckles on his right hand were turning white. He refused to give anything away.

“It’s the worst, isn’t it?” Moriarty continued. “Little helpless children with no one to save them.” He smiled and began to laugh. “Oh, you’re precious,” he said.

Greg looked at his watch. “Interview suspended at 6.34pm. Suspect James Moriarty is intentionally evading questions.” Greg turned the tape off. “Let’s have him taken back to the cells.”

Sally nodded and stood up. She walked out. Moriarty looked across at him. Greg gave him one long, hard look and stood up, ejecting the tapes and pocketing them.

“He’ll let you down,” Moriarty said. Greg ignored him and walked to the door. “He always lets you down.”

Greg just opened the door and left. He had no idea who the man was referring to. He didn’t want to know.

Two more interviews followed over the next two days. Moriarty didn’t say a word. Greg passed the information onto the Crown Prosecution Service who accepted it and said it was time to call that line of enquiry a day. If the man wasn’t going to offer a defence when interviewed, then that was his prerogative. 

 

* * *

 

Sender: Holmes, Mycroft  
Subject: Meeting  
Dear Greg,  
I have been considering the Moriarty situation. The trial has been fast-tracked. Obviously we are all keen to see a satisfactory conclusion at the earliest possible convenience.  
As you are the officer in charge of the case, it seems prudent the two of us meet. I have a vast number of images and details which could be crucial.  
The evidence seems conclusive on the surface. But I am taking no chances where Moriarty is concerned. We all know what he is capable of. We need every single piece of evidence we can find. No one can be left in any doubt of his guilt.  
Anthea will be in touch.  
Kindest regards,  
Mycroft Holmes.

 

To: Holmes, Mycroft  
Subject: Meeting  
Hi Mycroft,  
All sounds good to me. Would be great to have you on board. I’m already having to shift paperwork to the Crown Prosecution Service. Rushed off my feet at this end. Give me another week to get everything together.  
I’m trying to deal with this kidnapped banker case at the same time. Exhausted isn’t the word right now.  
Look forward to hearing from Anthea.  
Cheers,  
Greg

 

* * *

 

 A day later, Sherlock marched into Greg’s office, John close behind.

“I want the banker kidnapping case,” Sherlock demanded.

Greg frowned at him. “Why are you so keen?”

“I want the case.”

Greg sighed and handed some files over without a word. He had to admit, having Sherlock’s eyes on the case would be helpful while he was desperately juggling Moriarty paperwork and the kidnapped banker. “Go photocopy them and you can take them away.”

Sherlock nodded and passed the papers to John. John rolled his eyes and carried them out to the photocopier.

“How’s Moriarty?” Sherlock asked.

“We’re pulling together everything we’ve got. Which is a lot. He’s going away for good, Sherlock.”

Sherlock nodded and sunk into the chair.

“Sherlock? Everything alright?” Greg asked. But at that moment, John came back in and handed Sherlock the photocopies and Greg the originals. Sherlock stood up.

“Work with Mycroft,” Sherlock said.

Greg nodded. “I intend to.”

Sherlock masterminded the banker’s escape. It made the front pages of the papers. Reichenbach Hero Finds Kidnap Victim. It made a change from the ‘Crime Of The Century’ stories they had been printing for days on end. 

 

* * *

 

 At the end of the month, Greg finally received an email from Anthea with a list of dates and times Mycroft would be free for a meeting to work on the Moriarty paperwork. Greg picked a Monday evening slot, and Mycroft arranged for a car to take him to the Coeur de Lion offices in Mayfair.

Greg got out and walked through security and up to the main office area. Anthea greeted him with a curt nod and led him into Mycroft’s office. Mycroft glanced up from his laptop and smiled faintly.

“Would you like a coffee?” Anthea asked.

“Yeah, that would be great,” Greg said. “Thanks.”

Greg took a seat on the other side of Mycroft’s desk, putting his laptop down onto it. He handed over a stack of paperwork. “I think this is everything Anthea told me to bring. Plus some extras.”

Mycroft nodded. “Thank you. I have…” Mycroft sat back, opening a drawer. He took out a folder and passed it to Greg. “All the CCTV images from that day containing Moriarty.”

“Great. Thanks.” Greg began to flick through them. “These all time-stamped?” he asked.

“I believe so. On the bottom corners.”

Greg nodded. “Oh yeah, I see it. I was chatting to a bloke from the CPS earlier. He said he worked on a case recently where it really helped to have a timeline. He said the jury really responded to it.”

Mycroft nodded slowly and began to tap into his computer. “With maps,” he said. “Charting Moriarty’s movements throughout the day.”

Greg nodded and opened up his laptop, turning it on. “Yeah, that’s good.”

A woman walked in with a tray of drinks and biscuits. Greg took his gratefully, dunking his biscuit in his coffee. Mycroft raised an amused eyebrow, but returned to his work.

“Mycroft, have you got a notepad and pen?”

“Yes, certainly.” Mycroft passed them over. Greg began to flick through the CCTV, writing down the dates and times and locations. After an hour, Greg wordlessly passed his notes over to Mycroft to look over. Greg kicked his shoes off, pulling the laptop onto his lap and resting his socked feet on Mycroft’s desk.

He heard Mycroft’s faint chuckle, Greg grinned at him and checked his emails.

An hour later, the printer whirred on the other side side of the room. Mycroft stood to retrieve the papers and held them out to Greg. “These might help.”

Greg looked down at the CCTV pictures and noted the date and time. “An hour before he was in the Tower. I dunno why we need all of this. It’s obvious what happened.”

“This is Moriarty, Greg.”

“Mmm. Another coffee?”

Mycroft walked back to his seat and tapped into his computer. “On its way.”

“Do you still have that timeline of events?”

“Ah, yes.” Mycroft passed it over.

“Cheers.”

“Greg, have a look at this.”

Greg stood up and padded around to the other side of the desk. Mycroft had a map open, with numbered circles in different locations across London. “We can chart his movements through the morning.”

“And then number the timeline so they match up,” Greg said, nodding.

“Yes, precisely. The only thing I can’t prove as yet is how he hacked the security. I have experts working on it.”

Greg sighed and leaned on the desk. “Well, he’s smart right? And I bet he’s got computer programming experts all over the place. I mean, he did the CCTV at the National Archives years ago.”

Mycroft looked up at him. “Yes, that’s a good point.”

“I have them occasionally,” Greg grinned.

Mycroft laughed. “Don’t do yourself a disservice.”

“I don’t,” Greg said. “I have Sherlock doing that for me.”

Mycroft continued to smile at him. Greg licked his bottom lip and looked up as a man walked in with more coffee. Greg smiled and wandered back around the desk.

They worked for another hour before Greg finally decided it was time to call it a night. He collected his paperwork together. “I’ll sit and have another chat with the CPS tomorrow then, and see if this helps the prosecution with their case.”

Mycroft nodded. “I know the prosecutor. He’s very good.”

“We need better than good. We need the very best. Mycroft I…” Greg frowned and shook his head. “Moriarty shook me to the core. We have to get him. The idea of him on the streets just makes me feel sick.”

“There isn’t anything I wouldn’t do to bring about a satisfactory conclusion.”

Greg raised his eyebrows. “That’s a bit of a terrifying thought. But alright.” He slipped his shoes back on. “I guess I’ll… see you at the trial?”

“No, I can’t be seen to be there. I will have to follow it on the news.”

“Well, when we get the right result, I’m taking you out for a pint.”

Mycroft laughed. “A pint?”

“You’re right. Several pints,” Greg corrected.

Mycroft smiled. “Good luck in court.”

“Cheers. Fingers crossed ‘ey?” Greg walked out with his files and laptop, yawning as he went. He relaxed into the leather seats of one of Mycroft’s cars as he was taken home.

 

* * *

 

_April, 2011_

Peter Ricoletti had evaded capture again. He was one of those slippery criminals. One who it appeared had covered his body in soap and disappeared without a trace before being responsible for another heinous crime.

The kidnapping of the banker had been a particular low point for the Yard. High-profile and lasting far too many days, it was a relief when Sherlock managed to save him. Even if it was, frankly, a bit embarrassing.

Sherlock was desperate to find the kidnapper, Ricoletti. It was unusual to see him plough so much time and effort into it. Greg was grateful. With Moriarty’s trial on the horizon, he was stuck in meetings going through evidence and statements.

Even with Sherlock working on it, Greg never expected the phone call from Sally to say Ricoletti was being brought in. They’d got him.

“Are you serious?” Greg asked.

“Yep. One hundred per cent. Seen him with my own eyes and everything. Don’t know how he did it, but Sherlock’s got him.”

The hat was Sam Brockhurst’s suggestion. He said it would make the press conference a bit more interesting. They all chipped in the money to buy it. Sherlock looked at Greg with a bitter frown as he was forced to put it on in front of the eager press. 

 

* * *

 

 Greg attended the Moriarty trial on the first day. He listened to the opening of the prosecution case. He stared around at the rows of journalists. This was easily the biggest case of his life.

After lunch, he talked through the arrest. He answered the prosecution barrister’s questions. He read out his and Sally’s half of the interview transcripts. Given how little Moriarty spoke in those interviews, it didn’t take long.

Greg looked up at Moriarty in the dock, chewing gum, idly observing proceedings. The defence lawyer didn’t ask Greg any questions at all. Greg frowned.

He walked out with a feeling of trepidation in his chest. He read about the case in the newspapers the next day. He sat back in his chair. It seemed so simple. He knew Sherlock was taking to the stand that day, and he didn’t imagine that would go as well as other people were expecting.

The trial took four days. Greg had BBC News open on his computer, listening to it as he worked. The jury had only just gone out to make a decision, so he knew it could take a while.

It took just eight minutes for news to filter out of court. “James Moriarty, suspected of committing the so-called crime of the century has been found not guilty.”

Greg turned to his laptop in shock. “What?”

Sally swung open his door. “What the hell just happened?” she demanded.

Greg shook his head. “I dunno. I. I dunno.”

“How? How the hell did the jury find him not guilty?”

Greg had a long sip of his coffee. He heard other officers discussing the case in the main office, and they were making sounds of outrage and confusion.

“It’s a joke,” Sally said.

Greg just leaned back in his chair. It was so much worse than that. He rang Mycroft.

It rang six times before he answered. “What now?” Mycroft asked irritably.

“Sorry. Sorry… I was just checking in to see what happened.”

“You know very well what happened,” Mycroft snapped. “It’s over. Moriarty got away with it.”

“Mycroft, why are you pissed off at me?”

“I’d prefer it if you didn’t contact me in future.”

Greg looked baffled. “Sorry, what?” It almost sounded like the time Mycroft had broken up with him, but they weren’t even together.

“I have to go.” Mycroft hung up. Greg stared at his phone. What the actual hell? He knew what it was. For some inexplicable reason, Mycroft had decided to push him away again. Greg knew he’d eventually go around to Crusader House and force the bloke to have an adult conversation rather than running away. But for now, he had work to do.

Greg rolled his eyes and shook his head. He would never understand the Holmes brothers. 

 

* * *

 

  _May, 2011_

Greg had been sat in meetings all day. A change in Government always meant changes to policing. There had been redundancies in some of the top jobs, but with that, came opportunity for more Police Constables at the lower end of the pay scale.

The serious crime division was to get one new officer. Interviews were due to be held the following week.

Mostly, the news wasn’t too pessimistic, but changes would have to come. There would be more cuts in the next 12 months and changes to their way of working.

It was Greg’s job to relay the information to his team. There were some concerned faces, but it was nothing they hadn’t heard before.

Greg carried out three interviews the following week, but the person who made the biggest impression was Owen Sharratt. Young and enthusiastic, he seemed the ideal recruit. He was from Newcastle and got on with Manchester-born Sam immediately. Greg liked that he had previously worked in another city.

More hands on deck were always welcome. 

 

* * *

 

  _June, 2011_

His office phone rang. He answered. “Lestrade.”

“Detective Inspector Lestrade, my name is Arnold Manners. I work in the office of Rufus Bruhl, ambassador to the United States. His children are missing. And we want Sherlock Holmes on the case. I understand you’re the man we need to speak to.”

Greg rubbed his face. “Back up a sec. Start from the beginning.”

“Mr Bruhl’s children Max and Claudette, aged seven and nine, attend St Aldate’s. The school broke up for the holidays and a few children remained behind. Now they’re missing. We’ve seen the news. Reichenbach, rescuing kidnapping victims. And we want Sherlock Holmes on the case.”

Bloody hell. Kidnapped kids. Why was it always ruddy kids? “Alright,” Greg said. “I’ll go to him now. You got some pictures of the kids you can send me?”

“Everything you will need will arrive in your inbox immediately. What is your address?”

“G.lestrade@metropolitan.police.uk.” He received an email 10 seconds later. “Alright. I’ll go get Sherlock.” He took down the man’s contact details and walked through to collect Sally. He explained the situation to her and they went straight to Baker Street.

From there, it was to St Aldate’s with Sally and Owen. Sherlock spent time insulting Anderson, but he also found some footprints.

Greg and Sally visited a murder scene an hour later. And then they returned to the Yard, desperately trying to follow up leads for the Bruhl children’s kidnapping. Sam was on holiday, and Greg was sat at Sam’s desk working when Piper brought a fax over. Greg frowned and looked at it it.

‘Hurry up they’re dying!’ it said. Greg text Sherlock to hurry up.

“Anything?” Greg asked Sally.

She shook her head. “We’re on a dead end.”

It took an hour for Sherlock to come to the Yard. Apparently he didn’t feel the same frantic urgency Greg did. “What have you got for us?” Greg asked.

“Need to find a place in the city where all five of these things intersect.” He handed Greg a piece of paper, bearing the words chalk, asphalt, brick dust, vegetation and chocolate. They needed to find a chocolate factory.

It was Sherlock’s homeless network which found the link first. Greg got a group of police cars together for the journey to Addlestone.

Sally coordinated the search in the disused factory. Officers searched everywhere with torches. Sherlock picked up some sweet-wrappers and tasted one. “Mercury,” he said.

“What?” Greg asked.

“The papers, they’re painted with mercury. Lethal. The more of the stuff they ate…”

“It was killing them,” John said. 

Greg felt that revelation like a kick to the stomach. Disgusting. Some people were just beyond understanding. Sally found the children. The girl was conscious, the boy not. They rang for an ambulance while Sally comforted the girl. Greg called the US ambassador to tell him they’d got them.

Greg and Sally spent some time talking to Claudette at the Yard. She was comforted by Anna Rowe, an appropriate adult, ensuring the interview was legal and considerate.

Greg walked out with Sally.

“Right, then,” Sally said to Sherlock. “The professionals have finished. If the amateurs wanna go in and have their turn…”

Greg looked at Sherlock. “Now, remember, she’s in shock and she’s just seven years old, so anything you can do to-”

“-Not be myself,” Sherlock finished.

“Yeah. Might be helpful.”

Sherlock walked into the room and began to speak. Claudette looked up. And she screamed. Greg didn’t react immediately, but he grabbed Sherlock’s arm. “Out. Get out!” He pulled him out of the office.

Sally’s eyes widened and she went back into the room.

“What was that?” John asked.

Greg shook his head. “Dunno. Sherlock?”

Sherlock didn’t reply.

“We should go to another office,” Greg said. “For when they take her to the hospital. Probably best she doesn’t see you again.”

Sherlock nodded and walked out without a word, closely followed by John. Greg walked out with them. Sally joined them in the office a minute later.

“Makes no sense,” John said.

“The kid’s traumatised,” Greg replied. “Something about Sherlock reminds her of the kidnapper.”

“So what’s she said?” John asked.

“Hasn’t uttered another syllable,” Sally told him.

“And the boy?”

Greg shook his head. “No, he’s unconscious. Still in intensive care.” Greg looked at Sherlock. “Well, don’t let it get to you. I always feel like screaming when you walk into a room. In fact, so do most people.”

He grinned and walked out with John. “It’s good,” he said to John. “What Sherlock did, finding them. I’m sure the kid’s just afraid. Maybe the bloke was tall with dark hair. I don’t remind her of him because hey, grey hair. And you’re… whatever colour that is.” Greg shrugged. “Simple as that.”

“Yeah,” John said. “I hope they’re both alright.”

Greg nodded. “I don’t know a lot about mercury poisoning. But he’s in the best place, I guess.” Greg looked up as Sherlock walked towards them. “You alright?”

“John,” Sherlock said. “Time to go.”

Greg bit his lip as they left. Sally raised her eyebrows, but went to the kitchen. An hour later, Greg walked past an office and saw Sally stood over a table.

“Problem?” he asked her. She looked at Greg and then down at the evidence.

“I’m just looking at all this,” she said. She picked up a photograph. “The footprint. It’s all he has. A footprint.”

Greg smiled. “Yeah, well, you know what he’s like. CSI Baker Street.”

“Well, our boys couldn’t have done it.”

Greg nodded. “Well, that’s why we need him. He’s better.”

“That’s one explanation.”

Greg began to frown. “And what’s the other?”

“Only he could have found that evidence.”

Greg stared at her. “What?”

“Only he could have known about the linseed oil. Only he knew where the factory was, because it was him.”

“You’ve got no evidence. This is ridiculous.”

“He knew about the footprints,” Sally repeated. “And then the girl screams her head off when she sees him – a man she has never seen before… unless she had seen him before.”

“What’s your point?”

“You know what my point is. You just don’t want to think about it.”

They stared at each other for a few moments. “No,” Greg said, walking out of the room. He turned back to her. “Nah, look, you’ve never liked him. He brings up your relationship history and you don’t like it. And you don’t like that he exposed Ed in the way he did. No, that’s wrong. You’re glad he exposed Ed. But you think he should have done it quicker. You just don’t like him, and that’s fine.”

“It’s not that,” Sally said, beginning to follow him. “But don’t you think it’s odd? Don’t you think it’s worth considering?”

“No, I don’t. We’ve known him for six years, for God’s sake.”

“And how many of those crimes did he solve in that time? Like magic some of the time. Goodness knows where he pulled those answers from.”

“He’s a genius, that’s what he is.” Greg walked into his office.

“What’s going on?” Anderson asked.

Greg rolled his eyes and took a seat. “Oh, not you as well.”

Sally turned to Anderson. “He made the kidnapped girl scream when he walked into the room.”

“What does it mean?” Anderson asked.

“It means that she saw him before. And she was terrified of him.”

Anderson folded his arms. “Yeah,” he said nodding. “Yeah, I see where you’re going.”

“You’re not seriously suggesting he’s involved, are you?” Greg asked.

“I think we have to entertain the possibility,” Anderson simply said. “You saw how he found the footprints.”

Greg stared at him. “You’re both just leaping on this because you don’t like him.”

“Don’t you think he’s capable of it?” Sally asked. “When was the last time you saw him do anything remotely human? What is it he calls himself? High-functioning sociopath? He’s capable of it, Lestrade.”

Greg shook his head. “No.”

“Haven’t you thought it?” Sally pressed. “Cold, calculating Sherlock Holmes. Don’t you think he could shoot a man at close range and feel no remorse?”

Greg stared up at her. He’d said that once. To Sam. But he was being hypothetical, it didn’t mean anything.

“We need to bring him in and question him,” Sally said. “At the very least.”

Greg bit his lip. Sally was the officer he trusted and respected above all others in his team. And though he trusted Sherlock too… what was the harm in bringing him in? He wouldn’t like it, that was for sure, but at least if they did that then… Well, no one could say he hadn’t explored every avenue.

“Fine,” Greg finally said. “We’ll question him. And then you drop it. Both of you.”

Anderson nodded.

“Or I’m right,” Sally said.

Greg stood up. “Don’t try your luck,” he told her.

He and Sally drove in silence to Baker Street. “I’m going up on my own,” Greg said. “Last thing we need is your snide comments.” He pressed the doorbell. John answered the door and let him in. Greg walked up the stairs.

Sherlock told him no. Just no. He wouldn’t go.

“The scream?” Sherlock asked.

“Yeah,” Greg confirmed.

“Who was it? Donovan? I bet it was Donovan. Am I somehow responsible for the kidnapping? Ah, Moriarty is smart. He planted that doubt in her head, that little nagging sensation. You’re going to have to be strong to resist. You can’t kill an idea, can you? Not once it’s made a home…” He reached forward and pressed his index finger to Greg’s forehead. “In here.”

Greg watched him. Sherlock seemed close to angry with him. Greg couldn’t help but feel like he’d betrayed him and let him down, in doubting him for even a second. “Will you come?” he asked.

Sherlock sat down with his laptop and began to type. “One photograph – that’s his next move. Moriarty’s game. First the scream, then a photograph of me being taken in for questioning. He wants to destroy me inch by inch. It is a game, Lestrade, and not one I’m willing to play. Give my regards to Sergeant Donovan.”

Greg exchanged a look with John, sighed, and walked back downstairs. He glanced at Sally as he walked out. He looked up at the flat as he got into the car.

“Boss-” she started.

“Don’t,” he said.

“What are we going to do?”

“We leave it. It’s not Sherlock, I can’t believe you made me go in there and do that to him.”

“I’m going to the Chief Superintendent.”

Greg frowned at her. “You’re doing what?”

“If Sherlock Holmes won’t come willingly then we have to get a warrant and bring him in.”

Greg stayed quiet as he drove. It was Moriarty. It was all Moriarty. But there was a doubt in his mind too. A small one. Enough to bring Sherlock in for questioning, but enough to arrest him? He wasn’t sure of that.

“Donovan, we’ll figure something out,” Greg said.

“No. My mind’s made up. I’m going to the Chief. And you can come with me. Or you don’t. But I think it’ll look better if you do.”

“You’re risking our jobs,” Greg told her.

“I know,” she said. “But I think we’ve risked them enough already frankly.”

Somewhere between arriving at the Yard and Greg using the toilets, Sally had found Anderson again. Greg looked between them. “You know what we’re doing?” he said. “You know what we’re putting on the line?”

They both nodded. Greg took a deep breath and knocked on the Chief Superintendent’s door. “Come in!” he called out. Greg walked in first. He felt his heart pumping. “What’s going on?” the Chief asked from where he stood up near a picture of the Millennium Dome.

“Need a warrant,” Greg said.

“Take a seat,” the Chief said. Greg took a deep breath and sat down. “Right then, fill me in.”

Greg glanced up at Sally and raised his eyebrows. “A man we’ve been consulting with on cases,” Sally said. “We think he might be responsible for a kidnapping.”

“ _You_ think,” Greg corrected.

Sally glared at him. “I have reason to suspect he kidnapped two children.”

“Why?” the Chief asked.

“Because he knew where to find them. And because the girl screamed when she saw him.”

“We’ve been consulting with this bloke?” the Chief asked.

“Yes, sir,” Greg said.

“Who is it?”

“Sherlock Holmes.”

“Sherlock Holmes?” the Chief repeated.

“Yes, sir.”

“That bloke that’s been in the press.” Greg nodded. “I thought he was some sort of private eye?” the Chief asked.

“He is,” Greg said.

“We’ve been consulting with him. That’s what telling me? Not used him on any proper cases, though, have we?”

“Well, one or two,” Greg said.

“Or 20 or 30,” Anderson muttered.

“Look, I’m not the only senior officer who did this,” Greg said. “Gregson-”

“-Shut up! An amateur detective given access to all sorts of classified information, and now he’s a suspect in a case!”

“With all due respect, sir-”

“You’re a bloody idiot, Lestrade! Now go and fetch him in right now! Do it.”

Greg nodded and stood up. He left the room. “Are you proud of yourselves?” he asked Sally and Anderson.

“Well, what if it’s not just this case?” Anderson pressed. “What if he’s done this to us every single time?”

Greg picked up his coat and took out his phone. He started to follow them but stopped in the corridor. He couldn’t believe that. He didn’t agree. “John. It’s Greg. We’ve got a warrant to arrest him. I’m just… I shouldn’t be telling you this, alright? But I’m giving you warning. Tell him to behave.” Greg hung up and followed Sally out.

Sherlock took the handcuffs without much fight, as Greg had him arrested on suspicion of abduction and kidnapping. Even as Greg said the words, they sounded hollow. But what else could he do?

John was furious Sherlock didn’t resist. Greg was trying to remain as professional as possible, but it wasn’t easy to do when it involved friends, and good ones at that.

Greg wandered downstairs. He gave Sherlock a quick look as he went past the police car, but Sherlock wasn’t looking at him.

Greg walked over to Sally. “Happy now?” he asked.

She nodded. “I am.”

Greg sighed, watching Sherlock as he was pressed up against the police car. Greg frowned as the Chief Superintendent came out, a handkerchief covering his bloody nose. Oh no. John was handcuffed and pressed against the police car beside Sherlock. Greg pulled a face. Never made it easy for him, those two.

It was so fast. Greg barely saw it coming, but Sherlock had a gun in his hand, pointing it up at the sky. “Ladies and gentlemen, will you all please get on your knees?”

Oh for fuck’s sake, Greg thought. No one moved. They were all glued to the spot. No one saw this little rebellion coming, but this was Sherlock Holmes and it didn’t surprise Greg in the slightest.

Sherlock shot the gun twice. “Now would be good!”

“Do as he says!” Greg shouted, and the officers began to kneel. Greg didn’t go down so fast. He trusted Sherlock not to shoot him.

“Just-just so you’re aware,” John started. “The gun is his idea. I’m just a, you know…”

Sherlock aimed the gun at John’s head. “My hostage.” They began to walk backwards.

No one knew John and Sherlock’s friendship like Greg did. Sherlock would never shoot him. But for everyone else, there was an element of doubt. And that gave Sherlock and John enough time to get around the corner. Greg put his head in his hands.

“Get after him, Lestrade!” the Chief Superintendent shouted. But Greg wavered. Sally was already on her way, jumping into a car. The Chief saw Greg’s hesitance, and stormed up to him, his face just inches away from Greg’s. “Get after him!” he shouted.

Greg clenched his teeth. “You’re making a mistake!” he shouted back.

“Get after him now!”

Greg frowned and spun around, getting into a police car. They drove for two hours. There was no sign.

Eventually they arrived back at the Yard. Sally tried to speak to him, but Greg ignored her, storming into his office and slamming the door. He didn’t know what to do. So he just sat and replied to some emails, all the while waiting to hear Sherlock and John had been caught.

That news never came. Eventually he went home, collapsing onto his bed.

Greg didn’t sleep well that night. He left work far later than he should have done, when it was quiet and dark in that part of the building. He frowned up at the ceiling through the darkness.

Was Sherlock really capable of all that? How well did Greg really know him?

It had been six years. He’d seen him through rehab, cold turkeys and come-downs. He’d been around when Sherlock was struggling with not taking drugs.

Sure, Sherlock wasn’t exactly the emotional sort. But neither was Mycroft. Ah, but Mycroft had definitely killed someone. In self-defence according to him. But he didn’t feel bad about it.

And would Sherlock feel bad about killing someone? Unlikely. But kidnapping two kids just to prove he was clever? Was that really his style? Greg knew he was smart. You couldn’t fake that, not all the time.

By the time it got to 3.41am, Greg felt sick to his stomach. Staring him in the face was the reality that he’d let Sherlock down.

And worse than that – he’d done it while knowing full-well what Moriarty was. Knowing full-well what kind of man Mycroft was. He remembered Sherlock playing the violin at Christmas. How proud Greg had been of him then. He’d made a mistake – a huge one.

 

* * *

 

He woke up late and had to rush his shower. He drove to the Yard and was at his desk with only a minute to spare before being late. He fired up his computer before glancing at the newspaper on his desk.

Sherlock’s face stared back at him. And the headline… shit. Sherlock’s A Fake. He invented all the crimes.

He read it with a shaking head. No. He didn’t believe any of it. But as he looked up through the glass door, he knew his team did. No doubt about it. They didn’t know Sherlock like he did.

He turned to his emails.

He had one from the Chief Superintendent. He had to meet him at 9.30am. Greg swallowed and felt his pulse race. He felt as though his world was slowly beginning to unravel.

Sally knocked on his door and came in. “Seen the press?” she asked. “I told you about him.”

“Don’t,” Greg warned, pointing at her. “Don’t you dare.” She frowned at him and Greg held her stare. “Don’t even say it,” he said.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” Sally told him.

“Donovan!” he shouted at her. “Shut the hell up.”

She scoffed. “You still believe him.” She threw a newspaper onto his desk. “After this. All of this, you still think he’s innocent.”

“Yeah. I do.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“Get out, Donovan.”

Sally glared at him but turned and left, slamming the door behind her. Greg held his head in his hands. Unravelling. One thread at a time.

 

* * *

 

It was an hour later when Greg left his office to meet the Chief Superintendent. Sally was no where to be seen. Sam Brockhurst was sat at his desk with his head in his hands. Greg frowned, but walked out to the Chief’s office.

He knocked and was called to sit down. He took a seat, holding the Chief Superintendent’s eyes.

“Lestrade,” the Chief said. “I don’t suspect this will surprise you. Having reviewed everything you told me yesterday and the subsequent reports in the press, I am suspending you for at least three months. You will have full pay. For now.”

Greg swallowed, but kept looking at him from across the table.

“I need your badge. You may not return to your office except to pick up any items such as a mobile phone and your keys. Everything else may be kept as evidence. We will be launching an enquiry and we may well take criminal action in court. I would advise you find yourself a good lawyer. And start thinking about what jobs you’re good at besides policing.”

Feeling like the ceiling had just come down on his head, Greg stood and nodded. “Yes, sir,” he murmured. He reached into his pocket and lay down his badge. Christ, he’d spent his whole adult life doing this. He worked so hard for that small badge. The pride of it. And now it was just someone else’s table. “Who-who’s taking the DI rank?”

“Brockhurst. Donovan and Anderson are suspended with immediate effect. You will be escorted to your office by Brockhurst.”

Greg nodded. Sam was a good choice for DI. He’d keep it all together. “Yes, sir,” Greg said.

“Leave now.”

Greg swallowed and left. He hardly realised he was walking. Just one foot in front of the other, he told himself. Sam was stood against the wall, his head bowed. He glanced up at Greg. “Boss…”

“Don’t,” Greg said. “Just come with me to the office to make sure I don’t steal anything and escort me out.”

“You want a lift home?”

“No. Thanks.”

He followed Sam to his office – the office, not his anymore. He grabbed his wallet and keys and checked there was nothing else he needed.

“Lestrade…” Sam murmured.

“Yeah?”

“Look, when this is all sorted… you can have it back. The rank and stuff. When they realise you didn’t do anything wrong. I don’t want it, it feels wrong.”

Greg smiled sadly at him. “You’ll do a brilliant job, Brockhurst. No one else I’d rather took my place.” He started to walk away.

“I’m just keeping your seat warm, sir,” Sam said.

Greg turned and shook his head. “Not sir. Not anymore.”

Sam sighed and followed a few steps behind him. They got out to the car park. Sam took a step forward as though to go for a hug but Greg reached a hand out to stop him. “Don’t do that,” he said. “I’m not sure I can deal with it.”

Sam nodded. “If I need advice-”

“-Talk to Carter,” Greg said, cutting him off. “Don’t contact me. Not for anything. You’ll get in trouble, mate.”

“I fucking hate this.”

“Made a bed,” Greg told him. “I’ll go lie in it.” He unlocked his car and got in, driving back to his flat.

He got home and sat on the sofa. He frowned. Stood up. He walked to his bedroom and found that last packet of cigarettes. “I’m sorry, Sherlock,” he whispered to himself as he grabbed a lighter. The first inhale made him feel worse. The second was like a silent release.

He was only at home a couple of hours, napping on the sofa, when his phone rang. Donovan. Greg paused, tempted not to answer it. But he sighed and held it to his ear. “What?” he asked.

“Lestrade.” Her voice shook. “It’s Sherlock Holmes.”

“What now?”

“He’s dead.”

Greg’s body sunk down onto the sofa.

“He jumped from the roof of Bart’s.”

“Jumped to where?” Greg managed to ask.

“He jumped, sir. Suicide. John Watson… He… Piper, she interviewed him at the scene, and he saw him jump. Sherlock. Off the roof of…” And then Sally’s voice broke.

Greg stared blankly at the wall.

“I’m sorry,” Sally finally whispered. “I know he meant a lot to you.”

“Thanks.” Greg hung up the phone.

No. No, he didn’t believe it. No, not Sherlock. Not Sherlock Holmes, he wouldn’t just jump, he was a bloody fighter for God’s sake.

Not Sherlock. Arrogant, pig-headed, rude,  _brilliant_  Sherlock.

Greg’s hand shook as he scrolled for Mycroft’s number. His phone went straight to voicemail.

“Mycroft? It’s Greg. Lestrade. I know we’ve not spoken for a while but I… I just heard he… Please call and tell me it’s not true. I… I’m so sorry. For everything.”

He hung up. He held his head in his hands. He breathed in and out. All he could hear was his own breath. A faint cry from the child next door. A soft hum from the laptop on the table. Sherlock was dead. No. Couldn’t be. He lowered his hands and rubbed them against his knees.

He inhaled. One deep, shaky breath. He swallowed. Sherlock had jumped. He refused to believe it. He touched a button on his phone as if willing a message from Sherlock Holmes to appear. As if pressing a button would make it not true.

A text then. From Anderson.

 

MESSAGES Philip Anderson  
12.14pm: Just heard. No words. I’m  
sorry.

 

Greg just blinked at the screen. Anderson might have heard it from Sally too. Wasn’t necessarily true. Not if they’d both got it from the same source. He glanced at the TV. Would it make the news yet? Depended on how out in the open it was. How many witnesses. How many people would recognise Sherlock Holmes when he stood on top of Bart’s roof and…

Greg stood up from the sofa with a jolt, running through to his bathroom. He knelt on the floor and gripped the cold bowl as he threw up. After the first retch, he forced himself to be sick a second time. As though it would help. His throat stung and he slumped back onto the floor, wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve.

From the lounge, his phoned chimed. He sat still for a few moments. He grabbed the top of the radiator as he heaved himself up to standing again. He flushed the toilet, grateful for a sound filling the silence of his flat, distracting him for one moment from the noise and chaos inside his head.

He shuffled to the living room and slumped down on the floor in front of the sofa. He grabbed his phone with a shaking hand.

 

MESSAGES Jane Starnes  
12.20pm: Just seen news about  
Sherlock on the telly. It’s not  
true is it? He can’t be dead. I  
don’t believe it. I am so so so  
sorry. I don’t know what to say  
but I am here for you, whatever  
you need, just call. I know things  
didn’t end well between us but  
I am always always here for you. Xxx

 

Greg re-read the message three times before throwing his phone against the opposite sofa. It bounced off and onto the floor.

He grabbed the TV remote. Maybe a sick joke Moriarty was playing. Messing with his head.

He pressed the on button, and turned to the BBC. “We’re getting unconfirmed reports that amateur detective Sherlock Holmes, revealed exclusively in The Sun this morning to be a fraud, has died. His death - which I must reiterate at this point is unconfirmed - is believed to have been suicide.”

He turned the television straight off. Mycroft. John. Molly. Mrs Hudson. Mycroft.

Greg’s fault. I did this, he thought. I did this to him. Lack of faith. Lack of belief. Lack of trust. One seed of doubt. One niggling thought about Sherlock’s inhumanity that he’d always had but pushed aside. Greg Lestrade. The man who believed in everyone’s goodness. Gave people so many chances. And he didn’t give Sherlock one chance. Didn’t give him the benefit of the doubt. Didn’t stand up to Sally, didn’t stand up to Anderson.

And what kind of good person did that?

All his life, he just wanted to be good. Be a good child so someone would want him. Be a good cop so he could help them. Save the ones who needed saving, find convictions for those who did wrong. He wanted to be a good husband. Fucked that up twice. Wanted to be a good friend.

Christmas. 2010. Stood at 221b Baker Street, looking around at Sherlock playing the violin and Mrs Hudson’s joy and John’s smiling face, and Molly, so unsure but so resilient. Sherlock, the addict, the flawed genius, the inappropriate maverick. John: would pull a trigger at a serial killer with no remorse. Mrs Hudson: a drug dealing husband she wanted dead. Molly: in love with a man who would never love her. And Greg. More at home with this group of ridiculous people than he’d ever been in his life.

And now. June. 2011. Sherlock dead. John, God, poor fucking John.

And he did this. Greg did this. To the one group of people who had ever completely embraced him. The one group he very almost felt completely at home with.

Gone.

Dead.

Sherlock Holmes was dead. 


	51. Through This Confusion You Fall On Your Sword

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tissues, chocolates and hugs to all those who may have shed a tear or two. I am so freaking sorry. Have another chapter tonight. And another tomorrow. To: Mice, ahutchga1972, cltc75, psychicdreams, TheBluestBlue, Spooky831, theconsultinghobbit, Abbennett, ivefoundmygoldfish (melonpanparade), vanya, ianuk, beccab, JustLookFrightenedAndScuttle, MoonRiver, UnicornSoulHunter, WhiskeySally, ladyxdarcy, CommunionNimrod, OwlinAutumn, KingTaran, Atiabis, miss_anthr0pe and Jaeh - this chapter is for you all.

_June, 2011_

Greg woke on the sofa with his mouth tasting like an ashtray and an awful hangover. He glanced at the bottle of whiskey on the table and winced. His CD player, which had some point he’d stuck on endless repeat, was still playing The Smiths.

Heaven Knows I’m Miserable Now was the song of the moment.

Greg groaned and touched his head. What the hell had he been drinking and smoking for? He grabbed his phone and frowned. Six texts. Four missed calls. Jesus. He clicked into his messages.

 

MESSAGES Jane Starnes  
11.46pm: Are you drinking alone?  
Do you need anything? Call me. X

 

MESSAGES Philip Anderson  
11.56pm: I wish I knew what to say.

 

MESSAGES John Watson  
12.45am: Don’t contact me.

 

MESSAGES Jane Starnes  
12.54am: Greg? Please. I’m worried. X

 

MESSAGES Jane Starnes  
12.56am: If you don’t contact me by  
11am I’m coming round. X

 

MESSAGES Sam Brockhurst  
1.01am: Can’t sleep. Just keep thinking.  
I can’t do this shit. You’re the best  
DI out there. It’s not right. How  
the hell am I going to hold this together  
tomorrow? Why would anyone respect me?

 

Three missed called from Jane. One from Sam. Greg couldn’t bring himself to look at the awful drunk texts he must have sent.

Sherlock.

Sherlock was dead.

And Greg had turned on his CD player. He had lay on his sofa, going through album after album, smoking god knows how many cigarettes. He’d drunk three beers. Then went to the corner shop where he bought more fags.

He had turned to The Smiths’ albums then, playing each one in date order until he finally settled on their greatest hits, listening to it, song after song on an endless loop. Drinking whiskey. Drowning sorrows. Hoping if he drank enough, oblivion would just eat him up and he’d wake up and it all wouldn’t be true.

But it was.

Greg sighed and checked the time. 9.11am. He text Jane first.

 

MESSAGES  
9.12am: I’m fine.

 

And then Sam.

 

MESSAGES  
9.15am: You’ll be a great DI. They  
will respect you because you’re a  
good man. Back yourself. You can do  
this.

 

He stumbled to his feet and pulled a face at how nauseous he felt as he made his way to the bathroom. He turned the CD player off, grateful for the silence.

At least with the sickness, he couldn’t concentrate on how else he was currently feeling.

Ah shit. He’d lost his job. Bloody fucking hell.

He spent the morning throwing up. He hadn’t been sick from a hangover since university. He’d have been embarrassed if there was someone to see him. But there wasn’t anyone.

Greg lay on the sofa the rest of the day. He had the TV on, switching over every single time there was a hint of the news coming on. He hardly watched, just nursed his hangover and napped occasionally.

He cooked a pizza in the evening. He ignored the texts from anyone who contacted him. He went to bed at 10.12pm and fell straight to sleep.

The cycle continued the next day. Television. Smoking. Every conversation from the past week running through his mind. It was acceptable to start drinking at 12.13pm, wasn’t it?

By 7.12pm, he found himself in the bath, wondering how on earth he was going to get through the week.

He checked his phone, flicking through messages from Jane, Sam, Piper, Leon and then finally an email from Mycroft. Greg frowned as he opened it. It had been sent to multiple people.

 

Sender: Holmes Mycroft  
Subject: Funeral arrangements  
To whom it concerns,  
The funeral has been arranged for June 19 at 10.30am. There will be a heightened amount of security, owing to the likely press invasion. You may need to bring some form of identification.  
The full details are enclosed on the attachment. All enquiries should go through Anthea Boyette.  
Kindest regards,  
Mycroft Holmes.

 

Greg swallowed. He had no idea how he was going to get through two days until then. The words Sherlock and funeral should never have been in the same sentence. It was all so wrong.

The next day was much the same, only he had no milk and had to leave the house. He had tried black coffee first. It wasn’t very nice. He caught sight of the newspaper front pages then. Fake Genius’ Inquest Fast-Tracked - The Inside Story Of Sherlock Holmes Revealed Next Week. Greg supposed that was probably Mycroft’s doing.

He bought his milk and a few vegetables and dragged himself back home. It was with some reluctance that Greg picked up the phone when Jane called. “Lestrade.”

“Hey. Hey, it’s Jane.”

Greg stretched out along the sofa, muting the TV. “Hi.”

“How you doing?”

“Not brilliant, but muddling along. You?”

“I’m fine, fine,” Jane said. “Shocked mostly. Look I-I know I don’t really have any right to ask but… look, is there anyway I can go to the funeral?”

Greg frowned. “You want to go to the funeral?”

“Yeah, I know, surprising right? Look, Sherlock was a dick to me at times. But he and I spent a few days together when he was going cold-turkey and… well, he was endearing in his way and God, I can’t believe it. He was so young. And how can I believe that stuff in the papers? He gave me a lesson in quantum physics for goodness sake.”

“He did?”

“Yeah. When he was struggling with the pain, he used it to distract him. How can I believe he was making it all up when I know how smart he was?”

Greg sighed. “Yeah.”

“Do you believe it?”

“No. No, I know he was a good sort.”

“So… so, can I come with you?”

Greg paused. “I’ll have to check. They’re putting high security on it, and there will be press about.”

“That’s okay.”

“I’ll ring Mycroft’s PA and find out for you now. Is that alright?”

“Thank you, Greg.”

“You’re welcome. I’ll call later.”

“Thank you.”

Greg grabbed his laptop and bashed out a quick email for Anthea. He sighed. He received a reply within 10 minutes. Jane had been added to the list. Greg sent her a text and opened a beer.

One day to go until the funeral. He stood at his window with a cigarette, angry at the world and with no desire to go out into it. It was safe in here. He could switch off his surroundings and pretend it wasn’t real. For every two seconds of every minute, it was like the past six years were just pretend. 

 

* * *

 

 The morning came. Greg dragged himself out of bed. He felt the stubble on his face, and just couldn’t be bothered to get rid of it. He wasn’t at work anymore. What was the point?

He pulled on a suit, frowning at himself.

It was with a heavy heart that he drove to pick up Jane from her new flat. Mycroft had chosen a crematorium a long way out from from central London, perhaps in an attempt to get as far away from the national press as possible.

It hadn’t gone entirely to plan. Greg saw the hyena pack of reporters and photographers lining the gates as he parked the car, a few men in suits keeping them back.

Jane glanced at him. “What do you want me to do?” she asked.

“Just keep your head down and don’t say a word.”

Jane nodded and put her heels back on before sliding out of the car. Greg followed her down the path. The calls from journalists followed him along the fence. “Do you believe in Sherlock Holmes? Who is that again? Isn’t that the bloke? The police officer bloke. Oi! Are you the DI who’s been suspended?”

Greg guided Jane to the building. He glanced at his watch. They had arrived with five minutes to spare. John looked at around at him when he came in and then quickly returned to his conversation with Mrs Hudson, who was dabbing her eyes.

Mycroft was stood near the window on his phone, Anthea on a chair nearby. There were a few others in seats who Greg couldn’t make out from where he was. Molly turned and smiled sadly at him. So few people had turned out for the funeral of such a unique man. But who needed numbers? Not Sherlock, not when he was loved so much by these few.

Greg sat down in the far back corner savouring its shadows and darkness. He couldn’t see John anymore from where he sat. He expected John would prefer it that way. Jane took a seat beside him. “Greg it’s okay,” she whispered.

“I shouldn’t be here,” he said, rubbing his face. He kept forgetting about the stubble, bristly under his fingers.

“You loved Sherlock, you have as much right as they do.”

“They blame me.” Greg swallowed. “So they should.”

“Greg what…”

The service started. It was a traditional one, not dissimilar to the funeral Greg had attended for his adopted mother many years ago now. No one chose to give a reading. A two-minute piece of violin music was played. Greg heard sniffs throughout. He just pressed his lips together and tried to drown it out.

Beside him, Jane wiped away a tear.

It was short. Understated. So unlike Sherlock in every way. And what would he think he if he saw this? People morning for him. Perhaps he wouldn’t understand why. Why would anyone care? Sherlock, Greg expected, never understood or realised just how much they’d all loved him. And he’d died not knowing, because they had never told him.

Greg glanced over at Mycroft. His expression was completely unreadable, as solid and composed as stone. Greg would have given anything to walk over, wrap his arms around him and cry into his shoulder. He’d have given anything to tell him he loved him, and that he was there for Mycroft, whatever he needed. But he wouldn’t. Couldn’t.

It was Greg’s fault Mycroft had lost his brother. And Mycroft had always charged Greg with Sherlock’s protection. Greg had let him down.

“Is that Mycroft?” Jane whispered when the service ended. Greg just nodded. He couldn’t bear to look at him anymore.

“Want to come to mine for a drink?” he asked her.

“Sure, yeah. Whatever you need.”

People began leaving the chapel. Greg averted his eyes as John walked past. He stood up and walked over to where there was a book of condolences. Jane signed a quick message. Greg shook his head. He didn’t have a right to do that.

But he did light Sherlock a candle, for all the good it did. He stared into the flickering light. He looked up. At that same moment, Mycroft turned his head towards him. Their eyes met across the room. Greg was sure he saw Mycroft’s top lip twitch into a very faint sneer as he turned back to continue his conversation with Anthea.

Greg bit his bottom lip hard. That was all the proof he needed.

Mycroft blamed him too.

He swallowed and put his hands in his pockets. “You ready to leave, Jane?” he asked.

She nodded. “Sure, yeah.” She looked over to where Mycroft was. “Honey, I’m sorry,” she said.

Greg just shook his head and led her out. As he reached the door, he looked back one last time to where Mycroft was. His eyes were lowered as Anthea spoke. She was looking at her phone, probably filling Mycroft in on his work for that week. But Mycroft looked lost. Broken. Staring into the distance distractedly. His hands were in his pockets. Greg’s heart ached for him. He lowered his head, walking out and staring down at his shoes.

Jane’s heels clipped behind him. He felt the dull ache of guilt that he knew would never go away. He sat in silence in the car as he drove them to back to his flat.

As soon as they got in, he lit a cigarette. He offered Jane a glass of whiskey but she refused and made herself a cup of tea instead. She sat on the sofa opposite.

“How long you suspended for?” she asked.

“The enquiry starts two weeks Monday. It decides whether they’re taking criminal action or not.”

“You’re going to fight it though,” Jane said. “Right?” Greg stared into his glass. “Greg? Tell me you’re going to fight this.”

Greg shrugged. “What’s the point? He’s dead. Nothing’s bringing him back.”

Jane stared at him. “You have to fight it.”

“Why? I was in the wrong. I shouldn’t have done what I did.”

“Because you’re a brilliant policeman, that’s why,” she said softly.

“Am I?” Greg scoffed. “Sherlock solved my cases.”

“That’s not true.”

“Yes it is, Jane.”

Jane stood up. She stormed over to him and took the glass out of his hands.

“Oi!” Greg said.

“What the hell is this?” she demanded. “You’re just going to sit in your arm chair with a bottle of whiskey and a cigarette and give up?” Greg shrugged. “Don’t do that,” she said. “I can’t let you do that.”

“It’s not up to you.”

“You’re a fucking idiot if you just give up. You’re an amazing man, but right now you’re being a right stupid tosser.”

“Jane!” Greg groaned, reaching for his whiskey again.

She held it out of his reach. “Fight it, Greg. Have a shave, get a haircut, throw that shitting bottle away and get a bloody good lawyer.”

“There’s no point. I’ve thought it over. I’ll just go to the enquiry and get it over with.”

“Where’s the man I married, hey?” Jane asked.

“He was an idiot.”

“Not as much as an idiot as this man in front of me is.”

Greg looked up at her. “It’s my fault, Jane. It’s my fault he’s dead.”

“I don’t think it is,” Jane said. "But let’s, for sake of argument, pretend it is your fault. Let’s say you drove him to suicide. D’you really reckon you should give up your life because of it? Do the things he can’t do, Greg. Save people’s lives and bring them peace because you solved their loved ones’ murders.”

“It’s all my fault.” Greg swallowed and rubbed his face. “Even Mycroft thinks so.”

“Then Mycroft’s a dickhead. Come on. Greg.” Jane sat down beside him on the sofa. “I can’t bear to see you like this.”

“Simple,” Greg said. “Then go.”

“Call a lawyer.”

Greg folded his arms. “No.”

“Call a lawyer.”

“Jane. Leave me alone.”

“Nope.”

“Why the hell not?” Greg asked.

“Because I care about you! And I am not watching you throw your life down the drain. Is that what Sherlock would have wanted you to do? Become an addict, just like he was? Please. Please, don’t give up. Just… just call a lawyer and fight this.”

“I deserve to be in jail.”

“No.” Her voice trembled a bit. “No, that’s not true.”

“It’s my fault he’s dead. I keep… I keep thinking, I shouldn’t have listened to them. Why did I listen to them? I knew he wasn’t a fraud. It’s my fault.”

“Stop saying that! You have to fight this.”

Greg shook his head. “I can’t. Mycroft blames me.”

“Yes you can. Greg. Yes, you can, Please. Forget Mycroft. I’m begging you. Fight this.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re a good man.”

“I broke the sodding law!”

“To help people! You broke the law, fine. But you know what? People were better and happier because you did. Murderers are in jail because you did what you did. Life isn’t black and white, right and wrong, good and bad. You found a grey area. It was a bloody good grey area. Fight it. Get a lawyer.”

“Jane…”

“Greg Lestrade! Get a shitting lawyer.”

Greg shook his head. “You have such a foul mouth sometimes.”

“I know. Get a lawyer.”

Greg sighed. Any lies would do to shut her up. “Okay. Fine.”

Jane stood up and walked back over to the other sofa. “Thank you. Thank you.” She drank her tea and stared at him.

“What now?” Greg asked.

“Do it now,” she said. “I’m not leaving until you do. Try the Police Federation. You’re still a member, right?”

Greg nodded.

“Good,” Jane said. “Then they’ll find a lawyer to represent you.” Jane threw her phone to him. “Do it now. Do it while I’m here.”

Greg glared at her. He searched on Google for the Police Federation’s number and then called. A five minute chat was all it took. They set up a meeting for him and a lawyer the following day.

“You have to go to that meeting,” Jane said. “I am not letting you throw your life and career away. Maybe you fucked up a bit, I don’t know. But you are a good man.”

Greg sighed and sat back in the sofa. He knew she meant the words she said, but he didn’t believe them even the slightest bit. They watched half of a Fawlty Towers re-run before she got a taxi and left. 

 

* * *

 

 He met with a lawyer near Blackfriars Station. The man held out his hand to shake but Greg hardly noticed it as he looked around the opulent office. He only realised the handshake had been offered when the lawyer drew his hand back.

“Sorry,” Greg murmured. “Miles away.”

“Not a problem. Take a seat.” Greg sighed and sunk into it, fiddling distractedly with his tie. The lawyer opened his laptop. “Right, I’ve reviewed your case, grabbed everything I can from the Met which will be used in evidence next week. You and me are going to go through absolutely everything. I won’t beat around the bush. Our aim is simply to avoid a court case.”

Greg nodded. “Yeah. I suspected that might be the case.”

They met for three hours a day over the next four days, going through every single case Greg had ever worked on. The lawyer nodded. “Right. I know where I’m going with this.”

“And that is?” Greg asked.

“You need be honest about everything, Greg. Just be totally upfront through the whole process. We’ll avoid criminal proceedings if you do that one thing.”

“And that’s it? To avoid a conviction I deserve, I just tell the truth?”

“Cut that negative thinking now or you might as well tell them you want to be in jail.”

Greg sighed. He felt like it was no more than he deserved.

He saw the front of the Evening Standard that afternoon. _Sherlock Holmes Committed Suicide - Fake Genius Made Up Moriarty. Police enquiry to establish other crimes he committed._

Greg took the long way round on the tube back. He didn’t want to go home. Back to where it was empty and silent. Where memories of a flourishing relationship with the man he loved filled every corner. Where he couldn’t even look at his bed without thinking of he and Mycroft in it. A man who would - rightly - never forgive him.

Greg drank that night. He drank to forget it all. But as the night drew out and early morning moved in, he couldn’t shake the nightmares of Sherlock jumping from Bart’s roof.

And for the rest of that week, Greg watched him fall, night after night.

 

* * *

 

_July, 2011_

The room where the enquiry was to be held was just a few doors down from the Yard. Generally used for policing exams, it had been turned into a makeshift inquest room. Greg was to be the first witness. It was an informal and private investigation, his lawyer said. Greg knew that wasn’t strictly true as he pulled his suit on, felt his newly-shaved face and brushed his hands through his hair.

He took a seat opposite the independent adjudicator for the hearing. Greg’s lawyer was at his side. There were only six people in the room. And this was his fate. Here it began.

“We are here today to discuss the conduct of Metropolitan Police in respect to Sherlock Holmes,” the adjudicator said. “Under investigation is Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade. Also suspended pending a further enquiry is Sergeant Sally Donovan. Although these cases are being investigated individually, they do overlap and so all of the evidence will be presented over the next few weeks or months for both of these cases.

“I must remind everyone that the purpose of this inquest is investigate the conduct of serving officers. A decision must be made whether to reinstate the suspended officers, to dismiss the officers or take the case to court. As a court case may be pending, I must remind everyone taking part that all the evidence you give could be presented in a court of law in criminal or civil proceedings.”

Greg took a sip of his water.

“The proceedings will be recorded. We will first be speaking to Mr Greg Lestrade, suspended Detective Inspector for the Metropolitan Police.”

Greg swallowed. Mr Lestrade? Christ. Losing his police title felt like a bullet to the gut.

“Are you ready to begin?” the adjudicator asked him, after Greg had taken an oath on the Bible.

Greg nodded. “Yes.”

“Obviously I am going to be asking questions about your involvement with Sherlock Holmes. But before that, I am going to ask about some of your training and background. When did you join the police force?”

That was a nice easy question, fresh in Greg’s mind from conversations with his lawyer. “In 1988.”

“As a Constable?”

“Yeah.”

“On the beat responding to 999 calls?”

“Yes.”

“Until when were you doing that?”

Greg frowned, thinking. “Until 1997.”

“And at that time, you were promoted?”

“To Sergeant, yeah.”

“In what division?”

“When I became sergeant, I joined the homicide and serious crime division.”

“And when were you promoted to Detective Inspector?”

“In 2005.”

“When did your involvement with Sherlock Holmes start?” the adjudicator asked.

Straight to the chase then… “I met him in 2005.”

“Where?”

“In an alley way.”

“What were you doing there?”

“We were investigating two bodies.”

“And how did you come across Mr Holmes?”

“He was at the scene, and I pulled him in as a witness and possible suspect.”

“Who was with you?”

Greg tilted his head back, thinking. “It was just after I became DI. So, probably Sergeant Carter, Sergeant Donovan - who was a PC at the time. Maybe PC Edmund Bullock. I can’t remember besides that.”

“What did you do then?”

“Took him to the Yard, interviewed him. We had nothing to charge him with so let him go.”

“When did you next come across him?”

“About a month or two later. We were dealing with a case involving rat poison. There were a few bodies by then. He came to my office. I dunno who let him through. He said he had some useful information and he gave it and went.”

“But you saw him again after that time?” the adjudicator asked.

Greg nodded. “He used to come to the bike racks when I was having a cigarette. He used to ask about the cases I was on.” Easier times.

“And would you tell him?”

“In a very non-specific way, yeah.”

“Why?”

“Why?” Greg shrugged. “I dunno. He just had something about him. He took one look at me and knew everything about my life. And it was like he could do the same with cases. His brain worked differently, I could tell that from the start.”

“Did you find his behaviour unusual?”

Greg bit his lip. “A bit, maybe. But it was obvious he was just a different person. Bright. Really bright.”

“When did he first arrive on a crime scene?”

“About three months after I first came across him.”

“Did he stumble upon it by chance?”

Greg pressed his lips together. Under oath, he reminded himself. “No, I took him there.”

“Why?”

“Because I wanted him to take a look, see what his thoughts were. I should make clear, we’d already solved the case. We had people in custody with confessions and evidence.”

“Were you aware you were potentially perverting the course of justice?”

Greg pressed his lips together.

“My client won’t answer that question,” Greg’s lawyer said.

The adjudicator nodded. “Very well. Were you, in your opinion Mr Lestrade, doing anything inappropriate?”

Greg glanced at his lawyer and he nodded for Greg to continue.

“I hadn’t passed it with anyone else,” Greg said. “But I’ve been on drug busts where we’ve invited members of the press without prior consent. It was no different to that. No one bats an eyelid when the press take a couple of pictures or report on a raid and arrest.”

“Did anyone question you?”

Greg nodded. “Yes.”

“Who?”

“Sergeant Sally Donovan. She would have been a PC still at that point.”

“And did she inform a superior?”

“Not as far as I’m aware, no.”

“When did Mr Holmes next join you at a crime scene?”

“Probably a few months later. We were having trouble with this Rat Run case. That’s the one with the rat poison. So I brought him to take a look at the bodies. He was working at St Bart’s hospital at this point.”

“Working, Mr Lestrade? Was he paid to do this work?”

Greg sighed. “No. But he was given full access to evidence and bodies. He was overseen by a few technicians. He might as well have been an intern or something.”

“And did you usually bring interns to your crime scenes?”

“No.”

“Were you fond of Mr Holmes at this point, Mr Lestrade?”

“Fond of him? In 2005?” Greg snorted. “I don’t know. I thought he was a bit of an idiot at times. He used to drive me up the wall.” Greg bit his lip. Had he been fond of Sherlock though? “Yeah. Yeah, I was. I liked him. Not many people did, but he was a breath of fresh air. And I knew how to handle him.”

“And how was that?”

“You pampered his ego. Made him feel like he was the only bloke in the world who could solve the case. And a lot of the time, that was true.” How the hell was Sherlock dead? “Look, I used his knowledge in the same way I would any member of the public who came in with a tip.”

“Would you let any member of the public at a crime scene?” the adjudicator asked.

“I might let a lab tech. Someone who had a genuine interest.”

“Did Mr Holmes follow the correct crime scene protocols? Gloves and protective equipment?”

Greg narrowed his eyes. “In 2005, yeah.”

“So, he didn’t in later years?”

“He never contaminated my crime scenes.”

“We will return to this issue later. You solved this… Rat Run case?”

“Yep. In 2006 it was all wrapped up. We had two killers.”

“And how important was Mr Holmes in bringing about a satisfactory conclusion to that case?”

Greg half smiled at the memory. “Without me asking or telling him to, he decided to investigate by himself. So he went ‘undercover’. That’s his words, not mine. And he came across the killers. A group of drug dealers. And then he found the other bloke too.”

“Did you know he was undertaking this undercover role?”

Greg took a sip of water.

“I must remind you, you are under oath, Mr Lestrade.”

Greg frowned. “I know. Yeah, I knew. I knew he thought he was going undercover, sure. But. God, anyone could have done what he was doing if they wanted. Getting in with a load of drug dealers was dangerous, sure, but it wasn’t officially authorised by me. I told him not to do it.”

“Was Mr Holmes in the habit of disobeying your direct orders?”

“Sometimes. Sure. But not often, not like you’re implying.”

“I am not implying anything, Mr Lestrade, merely trying to understand the relationship between yourself and Mr Holmes. He was admitted to hospital late in 2005 after suffering a drug overdose, according to the newspapers. Is that correct?”

“Yeah.”

“Were you aware of his drug habits?”

“I was.”

“Did you visit him in hospital?”

Greg nodded. “Yes.”

“You knew he was an addict.”

“He was in recovery.”

“But you knew he was an addict?”

“Yeah, I did.”

“Aside from your visit to the hospital, did you provide any further assistance to him to aid in his recovery?”

“I helped him go cold turkey a couple of times. I also sat with him a couple of times while he was coming down from a high. I also persuaded him to go to rehab.”

“Is it fair to say your relationship was more than simply a working one?”

Greg shook his head. “No. He never counted me as a friend.”

“No?”

“No.”

“Did you count him as a friend?”

Greg nodded. “In the last year, maybe, yeah.”

“What changed in the last year?”

“He mellowed out. He wasn’t the same as he was in 2005. He was… he became a really, really good man. He stopped taking drugs. We had a pact and we both stopped smoking and he stopped the drugs. He stuck to it. I was proud of him.”

“Proud of him? Were you a father figure to him?”

Greg snorted. “Father figure? No. Look, Sherlock tolerated me. I don’t know why. I never asked. But he didn’t look up to me or anything like that. I was proud of him because when I met him, he didn’t really give a damn if the drugs killed him or not. That changed in later years. But he didn’t see me as a friend, I was a convenience.”

“Because you gave him access to crime scenes?”

“He struggled with his mind. He has…” Greg swallowed. “He _had_ a brilliant mind but he used to struggle with it. That’s why he took drugs.”

“And your giving him access to crime scenes helped?”

“It gave him something to do. And he was great at it.”

“When did you first come across the name Moriarty?”

Greg pressed his lips together, thinking. Moriarty was the question. Not MORnetwork. “We had a case of linked suicides,” Greg said. “It was weird. I asked Sherlock for help. He went after the killer himself. And he was told the man had been paid by Moriarty.”

“This was a Mr…” The adjudicator checked his notes. “Jeff Hope. He was shot dead at the scene by an unknown assailant. Quite a coincidence, Mr Lestrade.”

“It wasn’t Sherlock.”

“How do you know?”

“I just do.  The bloke, Jeff Hope, he carried two types of pills and told the victim to pick one. Sherlock wanted to prove he got the better of him. He was about to take a pill.”

“And how did you hear the name Moriarty?”

“Sherlock told me.”

“Sherlock made it up, Mr Lestrade.”

“No.” The adjudicator frowned at him. “No,” Greg repeated.

“I don’t understand your meaning,” the adjudicator said. “An inquest held into Sherlock Holmes’ death concluded last week. He was a fraud and a criminal.”

“No,” Greg said, a bit more aggression in his voice than he’d intended. “Sherlock isn’t a fraud. I don’t care what the papers say or what you think. He wasn’t a fraud. And that’s why this whole procedure is ridiculous. Because you’re meant to be looking for whether I committed an offence or not in bringing him to scenes, but you’re treating it like he was a criminal. You know what? He wasn’t. He wasn’t a fraud. I didn’t bring a criminal to my crime scenes. Moriarty was real.”

“Perhaps we should take a break.”

Greg sighed and shook his head. “I can’t answer your questions when we have completely different views on Sherlock.”

The adjudicator eyed Greg’s lawyer. “Perhaps you should control your client?”

“All rise,” the clerk said.

Greg glared at his lawyer. “This is ridiculous,” Greg whispered. “How the hell am I supposed to answer honestly when he thinks Sherlock’s a mass murderer and I know he’s not? Is this about my conduct or about Sherlock?”

“An inquest has already been held into Sherlock Holmes’ death,” his lawyer reminded him as they left the room. “Regardless of what you believe, it found Mr Holmes to be a criminal who made up the name Moriarty.”

“It’s not true!” Greg protested. “For God’s sake.”

“Mr Lestrade, you need to calm down.”

“Calm… calm down, are you actually serious? My job is on the line and as far as I can see, my conduct is going to be looked at very differently depending on their views of Sherlock.”

“If we can show you were simply taken in by a very intelligent, manipulative man then we may be able to avoid a court case.”

“Taken in?” Greg repeated.

“Yes, Mr Lestrade. Just like everybody else, taken in by the great lie of Sherlock Holmes. In fact, I may get a deposition to bring in John Watson-”

“-No. No, he’s grieving.”

“It may help your case.”

Greg shook his head. “Leave John the hell alone. This isn’t about him.”

“Look, Greg,” his lawyer said sharply. “The only reason I’m not shutting you up when you rush to Holmes’ defence is the fact that his ability to fool the entire country _is_ your defence. That’s all we’ve got. You should never have brought a civilian to a crime scene. And we will have to go through every single one of your cases to prove the right people are behind bars.”

“They are,” Greg said. “All of them, they’re right.”

“As far as everybody believes, you allowed a criminal to visit your crime scenes, work with evidence and solve the case. We need to prove you had no idea of his criminal activity. You will probably be dismissed for what you did, but we will avoid the court case. If anything, your delusions will probably work in your favour.”

“Delusions?” Greg fumed.

“Calm down, Greg.”

“I’m not delusional.”

“Wrong choice of words on my part, I’m sure.”

Greg shook his head and sat down at a table. “God, I hope the Police Federation are paying you by the bucket load.”

“I assure you, they are.”

Greg rolled his eyes and looked down at his watch. They’d only been at this over an hour and he was already stressed and exhausted.

“He’s not questioning you in an ordered way,” Greg’s lawyer said. “He’s trying to put you off. I’ve been involved in inquests with him before. He hunts around an issue, seemingly at random, and then latches onto something and links it to something you said an hour ago.”

Greg rolled his eyes. “Comforting, cheers.”

The rest of the day went without little incident. Greg was still being questioned the next day.

“We will now begin the process of going through each case Sherlock Holmes was involved in,” the adjudicator said. “This process will take a long time. We will need to go through every case Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade opened from the date he met Sherlock Holmes.”

It started with the Rat Run case. It soon moved on. 

"What was the next case you worked on?" Greg was asked.

“The next case we worked on?” Greg repeated. He frowned. “Must have been Hadrian Kirkcudbright, I guess… he was pretty keen on that one.”

“Kirkcudbright?” the adjudicator asked, flicking through his notes. “That isn’t on the list of cases I have here.”

“Sometimes Myc- MI5,” Greg corrected quickly. “Sometimes MI5 took my cases.”

“MI5? And you were familiar with MI5 during this period?”

“I was on an executive liaison committee once, yeah,” Greg said.

“What is an executive liaison committee?”

“It’s a direct link between MI5 and the police when carrying out an arrest,” Greg explained.

“How did that come about?”

“I had a friend… colleague,” Greg corrected quickly, “in MI5 who said they needed some people to carry out an arrest.”

“You have friends in high places, Mr Lestrade.”

“I really don’t.” Not anymore.

Cases. So many cases he could hardly remember. And then there was Tower House. The chef, found dead. A laptop missing, stolen from the crime scene by Sherlock.

“I see you reported that the laptop was critical in solving the case and yet you didn’t draw anything from it for days after you brought it into evidence,” the adjudicator said, looking at his notes. “Why was that?”

Because Sherlock took it from the damned crime scene. Greg was under oath. He wouldn’t lie about it. “We had a lot of avenues to explore. That was one we explored later on.”

“PC Piper Romowicz in her notes has Sherlock Holmes as being at the scene.”

Greg nodded. “He was. He had been contacted by the dead guy, who told him someone was after him. Sherlock was going to speak to him.”

“Quite a coincidence he was there at the same time you were.”

“Not really,” Greg said.

“I put it to you that he knew of the man’s death because he killed him. And he was there to throw you off the scent.”

“No.”

“You’re very protective of Holmes when you have no right to be, Mr Lestrade.”

“We’ve been over this,” Greg muttered.

“We have indeed.”

Two more days. Case after case after case. The Kennsington Riper, no Sherlock wasn’t involved. The Reichenbach Falls, Gregson’s case not mine.

It was half-way through the second week when Greg was done. Exhausted, he slumped in his chair. Donovan was next, fighting for her career too. She didn’t look at Greg. She looked exhausted.

“Did you ever question the involvement of Sherlock Holmes?” the adjudicator asked her.

Sally swallowed and nodded. “Yes.”

“When?”

“When he came to the first crime scene I spoke to Lestrade and asked him if what he was doing was correct.”

“What did he tell you?”

Greg rubbed his face. Shit. Here was the proof he knew he was doing wrong.

Sally sighed. “Lestrade said he knew it wasn’t totally right. But that Sherlock Holmes could be very useful.”

“Did you report this to anyone?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Lestrade and I knew each other a long time. From the minute I joined the Yard, we got on well and I trusted his judgement.”

Greg felt his heart sink. He remembered that conversation too. All those years ago, and he remembered saying it. He over-played his hand with Sherlock. So many times.

Four days with Sally. Questions repeated over and over. She never once contradicted Greg. Greg’s lawyer took delight in it. He pumped his fist with glee when Sally was done. Greg felt no such victory. He only felt hollow inside.

Anderson next. He half-smiled at Greg when he walked in and took a seat. He was solid in his answers for an hour. Until the adjudicator questioned him about Sherlock.

“Sherlock Holmes wasn’t a fraud,” Anderson answered. “I was wrong. And Detective Inspector Lestrade was right. I won’t say a bad word against either of them. Lestrade shouldn’t be here. If anything, it should be me and Donovan.”

“Anderson!” Greg called out. “Just answer the bloody question.”

“Shut up,” Greg’s lawyer hissed at him. Greg gritted his teeth.

 

* * *

 

_August, 2011_

Six weeks. Six weeks of questions and answers and cases and names and memories on the edge of his tongue. Many of those memories, once glorious and wonderful were tainted and full of regret. And then it was done.

“I will give my decision in the next four to eight weeks,” the adjudicator said.

Two more months of this hell, just to find out if it would go to court or not? Greg wasn’t sure he could cope with it. He went home and opened a bottle of wine. He was done. Exhausted. His phone rang and he groaned. In a drunken haze, he didn’t check the name. “Lestrade.”

“Greg. It’s Mycroft.”

Greg sat up in his seat. Mycroft. Fuck. “Hi. What’s up?”

“Have you spoken to John?”

Greg frowned. “John? No.”

“He is avoiding my calls.”

“I see,” Greg muttered.

“I’m concerned about his well-being.”

“I’ll try and contact him.”

“Please tell him to give me a call.”

Greg swallowed. How fucking dare he, after all this time? “Get him to give you a call yourself.”

“Greg-”

“If you care so much, then go and knock on his door.”

“He won’t open it,” Mycroft said.

“Don’t blame him.” Greg hung up the phone. He flung it across the room and against the wall. He heard it shatter. It wasn’t the only thing in Greg’s flat which had been blown to smithereens. 


	52. Too Scared To See Human Remains

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was originally three chapters. Then it was two. Then I was like, oh what the hell, so now it's 13,000 words as one chapter. But I'm not ashamed. Nope.  
> CommunionNimrod, Mice, WhiskeySally, ahutchga1972, cltc75, psychicdreams, ivefoundmygoldfish (melonpanparade), JustLookFrightenedAndScuttle, Jaeh, Abbennett, Non Mouse, Jalizar, beccab, KingTaran, MoonRiver, vanya, OwlinAutumn, ladyxdarcy, Velma, UnicornSoulHunter, Novels, Morgana_Holmes and Copgirl1964 if I could thank you all a bazillion times I would.

_September, 2011_

London was once Greg’s favourite place in the world. He hadn’t travelled much, but he’d done so enough to know the only place he wanted to be was London.

So it was an odd feeling to be leaving on the Eurostar with so much relief in his heart.

The desire to get away from it all didn’t mean he was heading to France completely willingly, however. But his dad was worried about him, that much was clear. Greg had fielded several calls from him, and had tried to say he was okay.

Greg knew it was a lie. His dad knew it was a lie. But it was a game he was forced to play, especially when he was also trying to convince Jane he was fine and put on a brave face for Sam who seemed to be struggling with his new responsibilities.

And Greg was just waiting.

Fighting his case had been draining and stressful, but it was a welcome distraction. He had been so tired after every day that he fell asleep with no trouble at all.

Now the days were empty.

Rosa offered him a cup of coffee when he arrived, and he sat in the living room. The dog joined him on the sofa, curling up against his side, and Greg patted the top of her head. He was pretty sure this was the closest he had been to another living thing in months.

“How are you holding up?” his dad asked him.

“I’m alright, dad. Just waiting now.”

“How long for?”

“Don’t know.”

Christophe frowned. “I can’t believe they won’t tell you. It’s outrageous.”

Greg nodded and sipped his coffee. “It is what it is.” He stroked his fingers through his beard. He looked down at the dog and patted her again. 

“Greg? Greg?”

Greg frowned and looked up at his dad. “What?”

“Didn’t you hear me?”

Greg shook his head. “What were you saying?”

“I was asking who you had to support you in London.”

“Oh. Jane’s been around a bit and we’ve watched some films. Sam’s been texting.”

Greg’s dad just nodded his response. Over the next few days, while Rosa and Christophe watched television or tended to their animals, Greg spent time lounging in the conservatory, watching the rain or reading a book.

He got up to get himself a coffee when he heard Rosa and his dad talking in the kitchen. He was about to wander away again to give them some space when his dad spoke.

“I don’t even know what to say to him,” his dad said. “I’m not cut out for this.”

“Just give him a hug,” Rosa told him.

“We’re not the hugging type.”

“Well, I know that.”

“I don’t know,” Christophe continued. “He just looks so…”

“Depressed?”

“Yes.”

“Just tell him you’re there for him,” Rosa said. “Support him. He’ll be okay, it’s just difficult at the moment.”

“He’s an imbecile. And if I didn’t love him so much - and if I couldn’t see for myself how miserable he is - I’d tell him that myself.”

“You will do no such thing.”

Greg sighed and slunk back quietly to the conservatory.

He stayed in France for three weeks. By the end, he was doing his own work on the farm, glad to do something useful. He helped paint some fences. He sold eggs at the local market, though his French was too rusty to do much besides hand over the boxes. But he was glad to return to London.

Yes, it felt too much like the world was moving on and he was stood stationary. But while he waited, he would rather it be in London.

He began browsing the job pages in the papers, just in the faint hope he might avoid a court case.

 

* * *

 

_October, 2011_

He looked at the date. It was Mycroft’s birthday tomorrow. In years, it was the first time he didn’t buy him anything. He didn’t send a card. He didn’t send an email. Mycroft had made it perfectly clear that he blamed Greg for what happened to Sherlock and Greg didn’t want to force him to think about Greg if he didn’t want to. And he clearly didn’t want to.

Because if Mycroft cared about him one iota, he would have been in touch throughout the gruelling inquest period. And he hadn’t been. He’d made his feelings perfectly clear on the matter without even having to say a single word.

Greg didn’t blame him. He hated him a little bit, sure. Hated how easily he’d thrown the past six years away like it was nothing.

Some days he resented him. Resented how he was presumably still sat in his plush offices in Whitehall and Mayfair. And though he must have been grieving, at least he still had the work.

Work had defined Greg’s life for more than 20 years. Not having it was painful. He was sick of watching drivel on television. He had seen his movie collection twice over. He still had two of Mycroft’s books on his bedside cabinet but he couldn’t bring himself to read them. It was too tiring, required too much concentration.

He could feel his brain leaking out through his ears. His health was deteriorating too. He hadn’t been playing football and it was beginning to show. The stairs weren’t as easy as they once were. And while he liked to put it down to being older, he knew it was merely because he wasn’t taking good enough care of himself. And for that, he had no one to blame but himself.

Because really, Greg Lestrade, suspended, lonely Greg Lestrade, was to blame for a great many things.

 

* * *

 

Greg was preparing himself for another night in front of the TV alone when there was a knock on his door. He put his beer down and stood up to open it.

Sam Brockhurst grinned at him. “You kept telling me you were busy, so I thought I’d catch you off-guard.”

Greg managed a smile. “Come in. Can I get you a beer?”

“Yes you can.” Sam held out a shoebox and a folder. “Now the hearing’s done, I was finally allowed to give you some stuff from your office. It’s still your office, everything else is the same. But…” He lifted the lid of the box. “I think I was killing your plant. He’s looking a bit sorry for himself.”

Greg carefully took the venus fly trap plant out. “It’ll be fine. I’ve seen it like this before,” Greg told him. “But, yeah, I’ll go get him some water.” Greg put it on the windowsill. “What else have you got in there?”

He had a quick look. Christmas cards and birthday cards, all from Mycroft. He pulled a face.

“Oh and this,” Sam said as he handed him the folder. “It looked personal.”

Greg frowned and opened it and then snapped it shut when he realised it was the notes about his birth parents. “Yeah. Right. Cheers for this, Sam. Really appreciate it.”

Sam nodded and took a seat.

Greg went into the kitchen and brought him out a beer before watering the venus fly trap. He sat on the opposite couch.

“How you doing?” Sam asked.

“It is what it is,” Greg replied. “How’s work?”

“Barely keeping it together,” Sam said. “Pip’s talking about quitting. Everyone’s exhausted and over-worked. Leon’s struggling with the new responsibilities he’s got. Carter’s turned into a right sodding grouch.”

“He was before.”

“Got that right, I guess,” Sam said. “Worse though. If you can believe that. Anderson’s a right fucking mess though. You know he got his job back as soon as the enquiry was complete?” Greg nodded. “Yeah, well,” Sam continued. “Started talking about how Sherlock was innocent. Chief Super’s not taking it well. It’s like anyone in that building who believes in you and Sherlock’s innocence is a traitor to the force.”

“Have you seen Donovan?”

Sam nodded. “Once. She had a bad break-up. Bloke started stalking her. She came round mine for a night while the guy got arrested. On a scale, I’d say she’s doing about the same as you, worse than Anderson. Not difficult to be worse than Anderson, I guess.”

“How close is he to losing his job?”

“They’ll get him on medical leave first. If that doesn’t work…” Sam shook his head. “Bloke’s nearing a break down if I didn’t know any better.”

Greg rubbed his face, wishing he didn’t feel so responsible for that as well. As if he wasn’t responsible for enough already. “Jesus,” Greg muttered.

“It’s just waiting for the result of the fucking inquest, isn’t it? Must be doing your head in.”

“It was,” Greg said. “But I just have to wait it out.”

“It won’t go to court, Lestrade.”

“Dunno about that.”

“Nah. Everyone’s convinced Sherlock was a manipulative maniac. Sometimes I agree with Anderson. Other times I’m with everyone else. I liked the bloke, same as you. Look. How you keeping? Really?”

“I’m alright,” Greg said. He thought if he said it enough then he would believe it.

“You should come out. Me and Owen, we go for a run most Tuesday and Friday nights. You should come join us.”

"Nah.”

“I’m not asking, Lestrade. I’m telling you to. You need to get out and live a bit. Seriously. Tomorrow night.”

“I won’t keep up.”

“It’s alright,” Sam said. “We know you’re an old man.”

Greg managed a smile. “Cheers.”

Sam looked at his phone and downed the rest of his beer. “Right, I should be off. It’s good to see you. I’m still keeping your seat warm. You’ll be back.”

Greg shook his head. “Nope. It won’t happen.”

“Just wait and see I guess.” Sam began to walk towards the door. He turned around and frowned. “Saw your bloke round the Yard the other day.”

Greg stared at him. “What?”

“Your bloke. Sherlock’s brother. The one you used to date.”

A flutter in Greg’s chest at that. “What? Mycroft?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Sam said. “Fella in a posh suit and a long nose, right?”

“Sounds about right.”

“Yeah. He was in about two hours, talking to the Chief and the Commander.” Sam shrugged. “Don’t know what he wanted. Anyway, I’ll meet you here tomorrow at 7.30.”

Greg nodded, but his mind was miles away. “Sure. Yeah.” Mycroft. At the Yard. What had he done? Found a new copper to wrap around his little finger?

 

* * *

 

Greg went for a run with Sam and Owen. He was convinced they were going more slowly to let him stay with them, but he didn’t mind. He went again the next week. It actually felt good to get out. For one hour, his mind was clear.

He was half asleep when his phone rang on a Tuesday morning, nursing a headache and a hangover. “Lestrade,” he mumbled, rolling over in bed.

“Hello, this is the PA for the Commander at Scotland Yard. He wishes to pass on the news that there is no longer a pending court case.”

Greg swallowed and touched his head. “Sorry, what?”

“The case against you will not be going to court. He wishes to meet with you on Monday. Are you available at 2pm?”

“2pm Monday,” Greg murmured. “Right. Yeah, of course.”

“Excellent.”

“Wait. Wait… no court case? No chance?”

“No chance, Mr Lestrade.”

He stared at the wall. “Thank you,” he finally said quietly.

“You’re welcome. Take care.”

He rubbed his face. No court case. No court. He wouldn’t be going to jail.

On the day of his meeting with the Commander, he shaved his beard. It had got unruly anyway. He had dark circles under his eyes. He’d put on some weight. He swallowed down the butterflies in his stomach as he drove to the Yard.

It was strange, walking into the building again. He nodded his head at one or two people who recognised him. He knew he had been a respected member of the force, once upon a time. Now he lived as a disgraced copper.

He waited outside in the corridor as the Commander’s PA tapped into her computer. He’d sat here, basically in the same chair six years ago. Just before his promotion to Detective Inspector. This was all quite a turn-around in six years, wasn’t it?

Finally, he was told to go in. He tried his best to hold the Commander’s gaze, but he feared the worst. The court case was over, but the official acknowledgement that his police career was over was going to destroy him and he knew it. He hadn’t cried in goodness knows how many years. He wasn’t convinced he’d hold it together today.

“Lestrade, take a seat.”

Greg sank into the chair and swallowed.

“We have reviewed all the evidence,” the Commander said. “As you know, there will not be a court case.”

“Yes, sir.”

The Commander reached into a drawer. He held out a police badge. Greg stared down at it. He frowned and looked up at the Commander’s face. “Sir?” Greg asked, barely dreaming of getting his hopes up.

“That’s your badge, Lestrade.” He put it down on the table. “And it’s yours. You will return to active service as of next Monday, 8am sharp.”

Greg stared at the badge. “Thank you, sir,” he managed.

“You will be returning to your old position. We will be speaking to Sam Brockhurst about his options later today.”

“Sally Donovan?” Greg asked.

“Was told she has also been reinstated. She has requested a transfer to another division, which we are currently working out.”

Greg nodded. “Thank you,” he whispered. “Thank you.”

“And I wouldn’t worry about your long-term reputation in the force either,” the Commander said. “I have a promotion.”

Greg stared at him. “Promotion?”

“Yep. I’m joining an executive liaison committee between MI5 and the police.”

“An executive liaison committee?” Greg repeated.

“Yeah. As of next week. The Chief Superintendent is also leaving for pastures new, so you can cause whatever trouble you wish under a new regime. You may take your badge and go.”

Greg got to his feet. His legs felt like jelly as he reached for his badge. He nodded at the Commander again. “Thank you, sir.”

He walked for the door.

“You’re a lucky bastard, Lestrade,” the Commander said. “Someone clearly likes you.”

Greg’s chest tightened. He didn’t say another word as he left the room. _Someone clearly likes you._ Mycroft. Mycroft did this.

Greg didn’t even need to call him and ask. It was blindingly obvious. And it made no sense. He sat in his chair in the car, holding his badge up in front of him. It was his again. He put his head into his hands.

If he felt close to tears, he never gave into them. He locked it away. He was bloody lucky. He didn’t deserve to mourn. He had been given a second chance. He turned the radio on and he drove to Pall Mall. He parked his car up outside Crusader House. He stared up to Mycroft’s balcony.

He pressed his lips together. He was still so responsible for Sherlock’s death, and Greg knew he couldn’t face him. So he drove back home.

 

* * *

 

And the following week, he was back. Sally was working in another team. Greg had heard she didn’t want to work with him, which was just fine, because he didn’t particularly want to work with her either.

Sam had happily stepped aside to take up the role of Sergeant in the serious crime division. Greg walked into his office, venus fly trap in hand. He put it down on his desk and looked around. Nothing appeared to have changed at all. His pens were in the same place, his papers stacked as though he’d never left.

“Brockhurst, did you even use this office?” he called out.

Sam grinned at him as he walked in. “Not a lot. Only when I was trying to impress someone.”

Greg rolled his eyes and stroked his fingers along the top of his seat. “Never thought I’d be back in here again.”

“I know, boss.”

“You seen Donovan?” Greg asked.

Sam nodded. “Briefly in the kitchen.”

“How is she?”

“Keeping her head down, I think.”

“I should go and talk to her at some point.”

Sam nodded. “Yeah, you should. Do you want to go through where we are?”

Greg nodded and pulled the chair out. He hesitated for a moment before sitting down in it. He looked around his office.

“It’s alright,” Sam said. “Gonna take some getting used to, but we’re all on your side. You’ve done enough for us, boss. Let us do you a favour yeah?”

Greg looked across at him. He hadn’t done anything for them. He’d let them all down. “Just tell me where we are,” he said.

He and Sam spent the whole day going through their current investigations and discussing options and new leads. The next day, Greg was at his first crime scene since he had lost his job. With every passing minute, he expected Sherlock to round the corner and tell him to stop being an idiot and look at the obvious signs.

Observe. Don’t just look.

God, would this pain never go away? 

 

* * *

 

_November, 2011_

A few weeks passed. It was on Greg’s lunch break that he finally typed Sherlock Holmes into the police system and read the reports of his suicide. Molly Hooper had signed his death certificate. The identity of the body had been confirmed by Mycroft. Not all that surprising.

Greg had no idea how Molly had held it together enough to write her report.

Greg had heard whispers around the Yard. Mutterings about his links with Sherlock. About how Sherlock was a criminal, a fraud. And Greg refused to take it anymore.

That night, he began to retrace the evidence. He started by entering the name Moriarty into the police database. He worked long into the night without even seeing the time go by. By 12.41am, he had made a decision.

He would clear Sherlock’s name, whether it killed him or not. It wouldn’t bring Sherlock back. But maybe if he could clear a tiny piece of his conscience, then maybe Greg would feel like he had a right to be alive at all.

He worked long hours. He worked every second of his lunches and early mornings and late evenings. He took work home. Many hours were spent with newspaper reports and documents relating to Sherlock and Moriarty.

He looked up from his desk one afternoon when Sam knocked on his door. Greg beckoned him in.

“Can I have a word?” Sam asked.

“Sure,” Greg said, putting his paperwork down and closing his laptop. “What’s up?”

Sam pulled a face, hovering behind the chair opposite Greg before finally taking a seat. “I’m handing in my notice.”

Greg stared at him. “What?”

“I’m handing my notice in. I’m… I’m done.”

Greg studied him. And he understood. Sam was the light at the end of the very darkest of days. The one person who could keep people smiling. Somewhere along the line, Sam’s light had gone out. Greg got that. “Okay,” Greg said. “Can I ask why?”

“I just can’t do this anymore. It’s not right.”

“What are you gonna do?”

Sam began to smile then. “Me and my band, we’re going to try doing some gigs.”

“You’re in a band?”

“Yeah, singer and guitar. I’ve always been in one, but we’ve got a new name and a new drummer and we’re going to see if we can make some money from it.”

“From gigs?” Greg repeated.

“Yeah. I’ll have to find a new flat, I don’t think I’ll be able to afford it anymore but… yeah. I’m excited about it.”

Greg nodded. “That’s… alright. I very reluctantly accept your resignation.”

Sam smiled. “Cheers, boss.”

“What’s your band called?”

“The Consulting Detectives.”

Greg let out a small sigh. “Huh.” He felt… nearly warm inside. “That’s… that’s nice, that is,” Greg said. “Sherlock would have… nah, Sherlock would have hated it and moaned about it to high heaven.” Greg smiled sadly. “He’d have liked it deep down. Would have appealed to his ego.”

“I hope so,” Sam said. “It’s a tribute, y’know?” Sam shrugged. “Too late now, but…”

“Mind if I ask why now?” Greg asked.

“Yeah, course. I just… don’t love it. I don’t love the job.”

“Even with the Sergeant rank?”

“It’s not right. I didn’t earn it. I got it because of you and Sal, not because I worked hard or showed I should be a Sergeant. It got given to me because you guys lost your jobs. I did it for what, four months? And I didn’t enjoy it. It was bloody lonely. It was what I thought I wanted, but it was meaningless.”

Sam shrugged and shook his head before he continued. “And I can’t do it anymore. I want to go home to someone. And I don’t think that’s going to happen while I have this job. So I’m trying something new. Bachelor life was good. But…” Sam looked back through the glass door as Sally walked past and stood outside the office, ranting to someone with her arms folded. A slow smile spread over Sam’s face. “Well. I’m hoping to make a change for the better in that department.”

Greg followed his eyes to where Sally stood. “Look after her,” he said.

Sam grinned and looked at him. “I would if she let me. I’ve asked her out three times already, and she keeps turning me down. Apparently my previous relationship history is a bit off-putting, which is fair enough. I asked her what I had to do, and she said I’d figure it out. When it comes to reading people though… I’m no Sally Donovan.”

“She’d be lucky to have you.”

Sam grinned even wider. “No, she wouldn’t. She’d be doing herself a massive disservice. Beautiful, firecracker of a woman.”

“You love her,” Greg realised.

“I do. I bloody well do.” Sam just beamed from ear to ear as he stood up. “Cheers, Lestrade. For everything.”

“You too.” Greg smiled properly in what felt like the first time in months. “Good luck with Sally.”

“I don’t need luck. Just need to work out what would make her happy.” Sam grinned. “Not giving up though. I’ve never been in love before, it’s fucking brilliant. You don’t give up, do you? Not when you love someone that much. And we’d be good together. We would be so fucking good together. Right. Well, cheers for accepting the notice. How long do I need to give?”

“Six weeks.”

Sam clapped his hands together. “Excellent. I’ll start booking me some gigs then! You should come along to our first one.”

Greg pulled a face. “Maybe.”

“I’ll get you out, boss. Mark my words. Later.”

Sam flashed him one more wide smile before leaving with a spring in his step.

_I’ve never been in love before, it’s fucking brilliant. You don’t give up, do you? Not when you love someone that much._

Hating himself instantly for doing it, Greg glanced at the venus fly trap Mycroft had bought him all those years ago. He picked up a pencil and prodded it, watching as the leaves closed. _You don’t give up, do you? Not when you love someone that much._

Greg sat back in his chair. He stared at his desk. And who gave up? Was it him or Mycroft? And who was hiding? Which of the two of them was hurting the most?

Because Greg knew the truth. Mycroft had got him his job back. And that meant in some way, however much he blamed him for Sherlock’s death, Mycroft still cared. Just a little bit. Enough to think about Greg. Enough to spend two hours at the Yard and find a new job for the Commander and maybe the Chief Superintendent too. Enough to ensure Greg was re-employed without any major repercussions.

But where was he? Had he ever turned up at Greg’s door? Ever offered him a text or a phone call, except to say ‘can you please call John?’

You know, Greg had said. And then in his mind he had added, you know I love you. And what had Mycroft done? He’d pushed him away. Again. And this time he never came back, he never tried, he just stayed away. He had abandoned Greg at the time when he needed Mycroft the most.

Mycroft would always abandon him and Greg wasn’t sure he could cope with that.

So, if Mycroft cared, then that was nice. If Mycroft had thought about him, even a little, then that was nice too. But Greg couldn’t just walk up to Crusader House and kiss him and say they’d work it out, because Mycroft would always leave.

Greg prodded the venus fly trap again. He would love Mycroft. He would love him for the rest of his life, of that he had no doubt. And he’d live with it. How would he ever be enough for Mycroft Holmes?

Sam Brockhurst, in love for the very first time, had got it wrong. Sometimes you do give up. Even when you do love someone just that much.

 

* * *

 

Two weeks after Sam handed in his notice, Greg sent Sally an email inviting her for a coffee one lunchtime. To his surprise, she accepted and Greg met her in a Costa Coffee. She already had a sandwich and a drink and he bought one for himself and joined her.

“Hi,” he said.

“Hello.”

“So… Brockhurst is leaving.”

Sally nodded. “I know.”

“I want you, Donovan. I want you to be my Sergeant. Whatever you want, you’ve got it. I need the best people on my team, and you’re it.”

Sally frowned at him. “You know I was avoiding you because I thought you hated me.”

“I did hate you.”

“Oh. Actually, that’s okay,” Sally said. “I hated you too.”

“I don't blame you for turning me in,” Greg told her. “I did blame you. I was furious. But now? Now it’s all done? I don’t blame you.”

“I shouldn't have let you bring him to cases in the first place.”

“Like you'd ever be able to stop me doing something I wanted.”

“What do you think?” Sally said. “Did he make it all up?”

“No.”

“I don’t know,” Sally said, looking into Greg’s eyes. “I don’t know where I stand on him. Can you live with that?”

Greg nodded. “Yeah, I can.”

“Did we kill him?” Sally asked. She looked down at the table, her eyes welling up. “Lestrade? Was it us?”

“I dunno,” he said. “Maybe. I believe he was innocent, so, yeah. Yeah, it was us. If you think he was guilty, then it wasn’t us.”

Sally let out a shaky breath. Greg went to touch her arm but she shook her head. “No, don’t do that, I’m not going to cry and I will do that if you touch me.”

He nodded and sipped his coffee.

“Do you blame yourself?” she asked.

“All the bloody time.”

“Sam says it’ll get easier. I think Sam’s very good at pretending.”

“I think Sam’s just a bit more optimistic than the rest of us,” Greg said.

Sally took a deep breath. “It’s work,” she said, looking up at Greg. “You and me, we’re not friends. We’re colleagues. I don’t think we can get to where we were before, but if you’re personally asking me to be on your team, then I’ll do it out of respect for you.”

Greg nodded. “Thank you.”

“Just… don’t go finding any more consulting detectives, yeah?”

Greg laughed a little. It sounded hollow, but he had tried at least. “Promise,” he said.

Sally left a few minutes later. It made Greg wonder. Was there a single person holding it all together?

 

* * *

 

  _December, 2011_

Work wasn’t easy. Sally and Greg were working through their differences in a very constructive way, in that they weren’t talking at all. Greg had invited her for a coffee after a tough day, but she declined. “Let’s just keep it business, boss,” she said.

Greg knew he was treating her as awfully as she was treating him. For all the blame he put on himself for Sherlock’s death, he blamed her in equal measure and with the resentment which came with it.

Greg wished Sam Brockhurst hadn’t left. He may have been a nine-to-five man, but he was cheerful and optimistic. He lifted an atmosphere and made everything feel better. They could have done with Sam when it was tense. Which was pretty much all the time.

He threw himself into work. He began to identify jurors from the Moriarty trial. He spoke to two of them. He spent weeks getting them to trust him, until finally they admitted their families were threatened. Getting closer, Greg thought. He was getting closer to the truth.

 

* * *

 

_January, 2012_

Owen Sharratt had appeared to have been a promising policeman, from what Greg had seen of him. And then he didn’t turn up to work for weeks. For Greg, it was bewildering.

Greg sat down with Carter over lunch. “No one’s reported him missing,” Carter said. “I looked it up. I looked him up, and there’s nothing. As far as all our records show, he never existed.”

Greg stared at him. “What d’you mean?”

“There’s no Owen Sharratt on record anywhere.”

“How’s that even possible?” Greg asked.

Carter shrugged. “Maybe he used a fake name or something? I dunno. No idea what’s happened. But as far as I can tell, he never existed. I’ll keep checking records of missing blokes matching his description. But I’ve got nothing for you, Lestrade.”

 

* * *

 

Greg went to one of Sam’s gigs. He sat in the far corner of the table, nursing his beer in silence. The Consulting Detectives were far better than Greg was expecting. Sam was excellent. He was in his element. Happier than Greg had ever seen him, and Sam had never seen the type to be low for very long.

Late on in the evening, Greg saw Sam and Sally having a very tense conversation. Sally walked out of the bar and Sam stormed out after her.

Greg left soon after that to find a taxi. It was only as the cab pulled out that he noticed them, wrapped up in each other, laughing and kissing.

He smiled for a moment, happy for them both. Then he remembered his empty flat. His empty heart. His empty life.

 

* * *

 

Greg stared at the 161-page document on his desk. Three months of work and it all came down to this. His report. His detailed analysis. Sherlock Holmes is innocent and here is why, and this is what someone needs to look into.

He rubbed his face. He picked up a blue pen, turned over the first page and began reading through it.

He left work at 11.31pm.

He got back into work at 5.21am, and spent the first hour typing up his edits. That evening, he returned to the report. He ate a sandwich and drank several coffees. He printed out the now 164-page document.

The next evening, he sat down with it again. He made fewer changes this time. He took the paper document home with him and emailed himself the report. He made the amendments on his laptop at the flat. He finally stopped working at 2.15am. He fell asleep on the sofa.

He heard Sally leave work at 8.32pm the next night. Alone in his office, he read through it one last time. He opened his emails and found the address for someone in the Attorney General’s office.

Taking a deep breath, he attached the document and sent it.

He saw it leave his outbox and appear in his sent items. He waited. He waited for the feeling of relief. He waited to feel glad. To feel content that he’d done his duty.

He felt as numb as he had before he started three months ago. He picked up his coffee, had a sip and pulled a face when he realised it had gone cold.

And now what? Three months of tireless work had come down to this report and it was done, for now at least. Someone else had to deal with it. But Sherlock was still never coming back.

He stayed at his desk for the next hour, typing up other reports and double-checking those written by others. He reached into his pocket for his box of cigarettes. He pulled his coat and scarf on and walked out of the building. He stepped out into the fresh air and lit up.

He closed his eyes as he inhaled.

And it was gone. The report had been sent and it was over. He looked up at the dark sky and then down at his feet. He slumped down onto the freezing cold curb. He kicked a coke can into the road.

He glanced up as a black car pulled up on the other side of the road. He watched it, as the lights went out. And then a back door opened. And Mycroft Holmes emerged from it.

Greg shook his head as he rolled his eyes and had a drag of his cigarette. His heart was racing. He watched as the man drew closer. Greg stared up at him.

Mycroft’s lips were pressed tightly together. Greg didn’t react. He had another drag of his cigarette. Mycroft put a briefcase down on the floor and took a newspaper out from it. He bent over and put the paper down on the curb beside Greg, and gingerly sat down onto it.

Greg frowned and stamped his cigarette out. He folded his arms.

They sat beside each other in silence, both looking out into the road and at Mycroft’s car. Their breath was visible in the cold air. Greg swallowed. He tapped his fingers against his knee. He was aware every single time Mycroft moved, even a little. Greg thought maybe Mycroft would potentially like a cigarette, but there was no way he was having one of his.

Mycroft finally spoke. “I know what you did,” he said.

Greg pressed his lips together. “And what was that?”

“You sent a file with all the evidence to clear Sherlock’s name to the Attorney General’s office.”

Greg rolled his eyes and pulled another cigarette out. He lit it.

“I haven’t had time to read it all yet, but no one else could have compiled such a complete and well-constructed report,” Mycroft said.

Greg snorted and inhaled. He held the cigarette out in front of him. He watched his trembling hand with a confused frown, like his own body was rebelling against him.

“It won’t be ignored,” Mycroft said. “I shall see to it myself.”

Greg grunted in reply. He clenched his teeth together. His eyes stung as tears filled them. He blinked them back. His hands were still shaking. Not with fear. Not with cold. Rage? Distress? He wasn’t sure. It had been such a long time since he’d allowed any emotion in at all.

“It may take more than a year to see anything done, but I will exert my influence where I can.”

Greg bit down hard on his bottom lip. He dropped the cigarette into the road. He watched the light fizzle out, and the smoke drift into the air.

“I expect you must be relieved to have it all over,” Mycroft said.

Over? Greg swallowed and shook his head. “It’s not fucking over,” he managed to say. His voice shook. He rubbed his face. Hell would freeze over and cover the entire universe in snow before he fell apart in front of Mycroft Fucking Holmes. Because how dare he come and sit beside him now and assume things about him? After all those months. There were no words in Greg’s vocabulary for how much he despised him just now.

“Get in the car,” Mycroft said.

“No.”

“Get in the car, Greg, and we’ll go back to Crusader House for a stiff drink.”

“No chance,” Greg told him.

“There’s no point in being stubborn. I am as determined as you are, and I will ultimately win.”

Greg rolled his eyes. “Piss off, Mycroft.”

“Get in the car, Greg.”

“No. I don’t just do what you tell me. Not anymore.”

“One drink,” Mycroft said. “And then you need never see me again.”

Greg frowned. Now, that was an appealing thought. He crossed his arms. “Fine,” he managed, before standing up. “But this better be a big glass of whiskey you’re offering me.”

“Of course.”

Greg walked over to the car and got in. He stared out of the window as Mycroft got in on the other side. They drove in silence to Crusader House. Greg followed him up the stairs, past the staff and into his living room.

Mycroft went into the kitchen and Greg heard the clinking of glasses. He blinked into the light. The flat hadn’t changed much since the last time he’d been here. He eased himself onto the sofa and took off his coat and scarf. Just one drink, he told himself.

Mycroft walked in and handed him a glass. Greg sipped it. Mycroft took a seat beside him on the sofa. Greg stared at the wall in front of them. His eyes stung. He pressed his lips together.

Mycroft leaned forward and set his glass on the table. “You have done extraordinary work,” Mycroft said. "I’m sure the courts will recognise it, when we get to that stage.”

 _We?_ This has all been me, Greg thought. I have been on my own and I have done this by myself. Don’t try and take credit now, don’t try and get in my life now. Greg felt his bottom lip tremble. He stared at the wall in front of them, having a large swig of his whiskey.

“You always did far more for Sherlock than he ever deserved,” Mycroft continued.

“And where were you?” Greg hissed. “Where were you when I was trying to clear his name?” He swallowed and tightened his grip on his glass. Perhaps he could shatter it, he was holding it so tightly. He wondered what it would feel like. What did anything really feel like?

“I felt it was important for you to do the work yourself. I did what I thought was best. And look how wonderfully you’ve done.”

Greg wanted to punch him. He hadn’t hit anyone in a very long time. He fought that particular urge, but it didn’t stop him from finally snapping.

“How about you asking me what was best?” Greg slammed the glass down on the table, watching the expensive liquid spill onto the table and over his fingers. He stood and moved in front of Mycroft. He liked this. Standing above him. “Rather than going behind my back and saving my career, why didn’t you just tell me what the hell you were doing?” Greg yelled. “I know it was you.”

“Greg. It isn’t me you are angry with,” Mycroft murmured, looking up at him with his lips pressed tightly together.

“Isn’t it? Because I feel pretty angry with you right now.”

“I was certain you would reject my help,” Mycroft said.

“I have been in hell for the past seven months. Just a note to say ‘I’ve got your back’ would have been nice.”

“I have always, as you say, had your back.”

“I don’t believe you. I think when Sherlock died you didn’t care what happened to me.” You abandoned me. Those words died. Unsaid.

“I never abandoned you.” Mycroft stood up and Greg looked away. He hated how he did that. “I put in some words with your superiors, yes. To save your career. As you deserved. But you needed to clear Sherlock’s name for yourself.”

“You didn’t give a fuck about me,” Greg growled. “Don’t pretend you cared now. It’s too late.”

“On this occasion, you are very much mistaken,” Mycroft said. “It is not that I didn’t care. In reality, I cared too much.”

Greg looked at him. He shook his head. “I don’t believe you,” he whispered. “Seven months. I have been on my own for seven whole bloody months!”

“No,” Mycroft said.

“Don’t just say ‘no’! Don’t dismiss it. Don’t treat me like I’m fucking stupid.”

“I never have,” Mycroft said. He took a step towards him, and Greg took a step back. “Greg,” Mycroft said quietly, reaching a hand out towards him. Greg flinched and stared at his outstretched hand. He shook his head. Mycroft frowned for a few seconds. Greg swallowed and looked away.

“It’s not your fault he died,” Mycroft said. Greg looked at him. Mycroft’s face changed. It softened somehow. Greg felt his whole body shake. His bottom lip shook. Mycroft was wrong. Mycroft was lying. Mycroft was trying to make him feel better, for why, Greg didn’t know.

Mycroft walked over, and placed both hands lightly on Greg’s shoulders. Greg bit his bottom lip, avoiding his eyes. He wanted to push Mycroft away, but the feel of his hands so warm through his shirt brought everything back to him in a rush. He didn’t think a single person had so much as touched him since Sherlock had died.

“You didn’t kill him, Greg,” Mycroft said, and he just looked so fucking honest. “It’s not your fault.” Greg felt the tears threaten again. He shoved at Mycroft’s chest weakly, but the man stayed firm. “And I cared, Greg. I should have told you that.”

Mycroft wrapped his arms around Greg’s neck. Greg kept his hands down stiffly against his sides, refusing to give in. But he couldn’t help himself. He had to breathe in and with that breath, he inhaled the deep, distinctive smell of Mycroft Holmes.

Mycroft didn’t move away. If anything, he was drawing Greg closer to him, and Greg didn’t pull back. And he was so, so warm.

Greg felt his body shake and Mycroft’s grip on him tightened. “I apologise,” Mycroft whispered and that was all it took. Two words. Greg let go. The tears flowed freely down his face. His whole body shook. He sobbed into Mycroft’s shoulder, his fingers curling in his jacket as he hung on for dear life.

Seven months, seven months, was all he could think.

Sherlock had died, he’d been suspended, he’d been interrogated, he’d drunk himself into oblivion and it had all hurt so fucking much. Seven months.

His face ached, and his eyes stung. He felt like his knees would crumble as his entire body was wracked with desperate, never-ending sobs. Seven months he’d tried to fight this breakdown. But Mycroft held firm, his arms keeping him up. Mycroft’s hand rubbed up and down his back. Greg cried and couldn’t stop, the tears painful against his cheeks and he was so fucking miserable he wanted to curl up and hide forever. He cried like it was the only thing he knew how to do.

But still Mycroft never let go.

He fought to catch his breath and couldn’t, and he just could not stop the tears and Mycroft’s possessive hand found his hair, holding him in close.

He swallowed and rubbed his face. With one arm he held onto Mycroft like he would a rock in a stormy sea. He clenched his fist into his jacket. He pulled at it, and swore under his breath. And still Mycroft never let go.

And Greg’s knees did crumble. And Mycroft went with him, letting Greg take him down to the floor until they were both on their knees, Greg crying painfully into his jacket. Mycroft showed no signs of letting him go.

Gradually, eventually, the tears began to slow. Greg fought to get his breathing back to normal. He rubbed his cheek on Mycroft’s - now rather wet - jacket. He needed to pull back, and he knew it, but he couldn’t. He inhaled again. Mycroft’s aftershave. A faint trace of cigarettes.

“I miss the stupid bastard so much,” Greg finally muttered when he felt like he could breathe again. He felt Mycroft nod against him. Greg buried his face into the man’s shoulder.

He finally pulled back, rubbing his face and wiping away the last of the tears. He looked at the damp spot on Mycroft’s jacket, too ashamed to meet his eyes. “Sorry about the…” He pointed to the mark.

Mycroft smiled uneasily and kept his hands firmly on Greg’s shoulders. “Not at all,” he said.

Greg looked at him then. His eyes were filled with concern. Compassion. And when Greg blinked, the expression looking back at him didn’t change.

Greg began to move away but Mycroft reached out. Three fingers pressed ever, ever so lightly against Greg’s cheek. Greg met his eyes and held his breath. And then Mycroft moved closer. Greg subconsciously licked his lips. ‘Mycroft’, he wanted to say. ‘Mycroft, I can’t’. But the words were stuck in his throat. And Mycroft moved his face slightly closer still. Greg’s hands were shaking. He whispered “Mycroft.” And Mycroft closed the gap between them and brushed their mouths together.

At first Greg didn’t move, shocked by the feel of lips against his, but he soon surrendered into it, holding Mycroft tight against him. It was so hesitant. Every kiss was oh so brief. So light. Greg’s heart was pounding. It was near to overwhelming. It had been so long since he’d been this close to another person, he’d very nearly forgotten what it was like. Their top lips brushed against each other’s.

Greg swallowed and flicked his eyes up to Mycroft’s. His grey eyes were wide, lips parted. They gazed at each other. Greg let out a shaky breath.

And then Greg slammed their mouths together, pulling him tight against him. Greg lost himself in the kiss. He was living now only for Mycroft’s taste. He was fighting to get closer, nearer. To feel him. Mycroft’s mouth was the only thing that mattered. It was like being pulled back to earth again. Remembering.

This was what it was like to _feel_.

He couldn’t remember the last time he felt anything but pain.

But this - but this - was right, this was heaven, this was like being surrounded in bliss and need and - no, couldn’t go there, not to _that_ word, it was still too raw, still too sudden.

They broke the kiss, both breathing hard and staring at each other. Greg swallowed. They had just been…

Mycroft’s lips were red, and he flicked his tongue out to lick his bottom one. Greg just kept staring. No. God, no. He frowned and stumbled up to his feet, brushing down his clothes. He bit his lip, walking to the table and grabbing his drink. He downed it, instantly regretted it, and pulled a face. From behind him, he heard Mycroft rise to his feet, but Greg couldn’t bring himself to turn around.

He stared at the door. It would be so easy to just walk out right now, never have to see Mycroft again. But then from behind him, a warm hand found his shoulder. It was a light touch, intended to stabilise not pressurise him to stay. But Greg felt grounded to the spot nonetheless.

Mycroft spoke. “I cannot find the words to express how truly sorry I am.”

Greg just shook his head a little. The words just sounded so meaningless and empty after all this time. He licked his lips. They were still tingling.

Mycroft’s hand dropped from his shoulder.

“You have no right,” Greg whispered. “No right to kiss me. You can’t just… You can’t play me like this.”

“Who said anything about it being a game?”

“It was always a game to you. Both of you. And you both lost. We all lost.”

Silence fell between them.

“I lost everything,” Greg finally managed to breathe out. He heard Mycroft move and Greg turned his head to watch as the man retreated to a chair. He was looking down at his knees. “What?” Greg asked. “Can’t handle the truth?”

Mycroft looked up and stared resolutely at him. “There are always risks in everything. From the moment Moriarty entered our lives, we gambled. Everyone gambled. You did too.”

“I never had a choice in anything I did! I did what you said because I thought you knew best. And then you turn up out of the blue and tell me how great I am because I wrote a hundred pages of truths everyone should know anyway? And then, on top of all of that, you kiss me. Like I should just forgive and forget because, what? You’re feeling a bit lonely? Missing having Sherlock to play with, so you thought you’d have a quick fuck for old time’s sake?”

“Greg-”

“-You have no idea, do you?” Greg snapped. “You’re a genius, Mycroft. But you have absolutely no idea of anything I’m feeling because you don’t feel anything. You have no bloody clue of the epic mistakes you’ve made down the line-”

“-You’re right.”

“-And you just pick people up and pretend, and… y’what? Did you just say I’m right?”

“Yes,” Mycroft said.

“What bit was I right about?”

“That I made a mistake.”

“What mistake?” Greg asked, aggression in his tone.

“Where should I begin?”

“Why don’t you start with the very worst, hey? Don’t beat about the bush.”

Mycroft opened his mouth to speak, but the words must have got stuck, because he didn’t make a sound. Greg rolled his eyes and shook his head. “You and Sherlock," Greg muttered as he turned away from Mycroft and moved to pick his coat up from the chair. “Never admit when you do something wrong.”

“January 6th, 2007.”

Greg froze. He didn’t turn to look at Mycroft. “What?” he asked.

“The day I made the greatest mistake of my life.”

Greg frowned. 2007? “I don’t… I don’t follow. What did you do?”

Mycroft paused for one moment. “I ended our relationship,” he finally said.

Greg’s breath caught in his throat. He exhaled a few moments later, and his shoulders relaxed a fraction. “On January 6th? In 2007? You… that’s the day when you broke up with me?”

“Yes.”

Greg stood still. He breathed long and hard and finally turned around to face Mycroft. There was worry written across Mycroft’s face. And Christ, had that man ever looked so vulnerable? Greg caught his breath and pressed his lips together.

Slowly, almost in slow motion, Greg lowered himself onto the sofa. Mycroft was watching him intently. Greg closed his eyes. He put one hand down on the brown leather seat and rubbed his thumb against it. He opened his eyes again.

Mycroft slowly rose from his chair. He unbuttoned his jacket before removing it and draping it over the arm of the chair. He unfastened his waistcoat. That too was draped over the seat. And finally his fingers reached his tie. He held Greg’s eyes as he slipped it off. He undid the top button of his shirt. He turned his attention to the cufflink on his right arm. He took it off and pocketed it, rolling the sleeve up to his elbow. He turned his attention to the other arm, and did the same. Greg stared, transfixed. What the hell was he doing?

But stood now, without his armour, Mycroft walked towards Greg. Greg looked up at him. And then Mycroft lowered himself to his knees in front of him. He took Greg’s hands in his own.

Greg let out a shaky breath and held the gaze of the grey eyes staring back at him.

Mycroft grasped his hands. He began to speak. “You are the kindest, most loyal, most wonderful human being I have ever known. And none of this has ever been your fault.”

Greg shook his head. “No,” he whispered. How could he ever believe that was true?

“Yes. Look at me.”

Greg bit his bottom lip and looked back into Mycroft’s eyes. He felt himself drowning in them. His own pain was reflected back in Mycroft’s face.

Mycroft squeezed his hands. “You have never, ever been on your own in all the years I have had the great honour of knowing you. And you never will be.”

Greg took a deep breath. “Mycroft,” he whispered, his voice still shaking. He lowered his head, pressing their foreheads together. He squeezed his eyes closed. He was sure he could cry again, but he had nothing left to give.

They sat there for what felt like hours, but it could only have been minutes. Their hands clasped together, foreheads resting against each other’s.

Greg forced himself to take a few long deep breaths. He had to relax. And when he began to relax, he felt it. That flash of emotion. Positive emotion. A warmth.

He sat back in the chair, rubbing his thumb against Mycroft knuckles. “Get up here,” Greg murmured.

Mycroft gave his hands one quick squeeze before standing up. One of his knees cracked. They both looked at each other. Despite himself, Greg laughed. Mycroft began to smile too and he lowered himself onto the sofa beside Greg.

The laughter subsiding, Greg sighed and dropped his head to Mycroft’s shoulder. One of Mycroft’s hands rested on the back of his head, fingers brushing through his hair. Greg closed his eyes as he held onto him, listening to their breathing. The closeness was bringing it all back in a rush. Reigniting his heart, and remembering just how good it was to care about this man.

Greg swung his legs up on the sofa, putting them over Mycroft’s lap. Mycroft cradled his head and Greg closed his eyes. Greg was trying to think, but his brain just felt foggy. All he could do was feel. And it wasn’t blame, despair, endless darkness. It was heat. It was a trace of light. It was Mycroft.

Greg opened his eyes, brushed his lips against Mycroft’s shoulder and pulled back a fraction to look at him.

“Can I stay?” Greg asked, before he had even really thought it through.

Mycroft looked momentarily stunned before nodding. “Of course.” Mycroft frowned and glanced at the spare room door. “I may need to make up the bed-”

“-No,” Greg said, certainty in his voice. “With you.”

Mycroft let out a soft sigh. “Yes,” his voice shook. “Yes, of course.” He took Greg’s hand. Greg allowed himself a small smile. Greg knew where it was, of course he remembered, but he let himself be led to Mycroft’s bedroom. Mycroft turned a dim light on.

The sheets were still a deep red. It was oddly comforting that they hadn’t changed. Greg kicked his shoes off and watched Mycroft lean down to untie his own and slip them off.

Greg took a seat on the edge of the bed. He didn’t look at Mycroft as he unfastened his belt and put it down on the floor. He unbuttoned his shirt, his fingers shaking a bit as he did so.

He started to fold it, changed his mind, and dropped it on the floor. He pulled his socks off next. He allowed himself a sideways glance at Mycroft. He was stood in his boxers as he unbuttoned his shirt, his back to Greg.

Greg unfastened his trousers and pulled them off. He pulled the covers back and lay down on his side, staring at the wall. He felt Mycroft slip in behind him. They lay like that for a few long moments.

“Hang on,” Greg said, not turning to look at him. “Just. Before we do this and can’t go back on it tomorrow morning. We’re just sleeping, yeah? We’re just… comforting and…”

“If that’s what you want.”

Greg sighed. “You never wanted what I wanted.”

“You’re wrong," Mycroft said. 

Greg frowned. He rolled over and looked at Mycroft. He felt a flash of hope in his chest, and wished he had the ability to kill it. Greg bit his lip. “Back then, you said it was sex and just… being physical with each other, yeah?”

Mycroft nodded.

“And that was good. But I can’t do that again.”

“Nor can I,” Mycroft said. “Do you honestly think I would allow just anyone to come and lie here with me? How many people do you think have shared my bed since you, Greg?”

Greg swallowed. “I dunno.”

“No one.”

Greg stared at him. “No one?”

“No.”

“What do you want from me?” Greg finally whispered.

“I don’t want anything from you. I don’t deserve anything from you.”

“Right now? Mycroft. Come on. What do you want?”

Mycroft closed his eyes for a moment. “I wish I could kiss you,” he whispered.

Greg bit his lip and nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, God, yeah,” he said, moving closer. He reached a tentative hand out to cup Mycroft’s cheek. He paused for a moment before kissing Mycroft’s top lip. He turned his attention to his lower one. He kissed the corner of his mouth.

He felt Mycroft relax a bit beside him, and Greg did likewise. And once he had started, he just couldn’t stop. They shared delicate kisses. Greg felt himself slowly start to smile with every press of Mycroft’s mouth against his.

They lay like that for a while, sharing intermittent kisses, their noses nudging each other’s. Their hands searched each other’s backs and Greg couldn’t help but smile.

It was quiet, so peacefully still.

And Greg found he was exhausted. His eyes closed for a few seconds. Drained. The raw energy he’d been storing up for months was gone, and it had left him shattered. And yet, the outpouring of emotion had been somewhat relieving. Cathartic.

Mycroft rolled down onto his back, and Greg moved with him, resting his head on his chest. Mycroft’s hand moved to his hair, fingers stroking through the strands. Greg felt the tension completely leave his shoulders. He listened to Mycroft’s heartbeat.

“Stay,” Mycroft whispered and Greg just nodded.

Distantly, he was aware of the light being turned off. He fell asleep in Mycroft’s arms.

 

* * *

 

He was dimly aware of Mycroft leaving the room, but Greg took little notice of it as he rolled over into the warm spot the man had just vacated. He felt weightless. He rubbed his fingers against the soft cotton sheets. He replayed the conversations from earlier that evening. He wasn’t sure which bits he’d dreamed.

Mycroft returned moments later, getting into bed behind him and wrapping his body against Greg’s back. Greg pressed back towards him, taking hold of the man’s hand. He was wearing just his boxers, and Greg stroked his foot against his. “What’s time?” he mumbled.

“Just gone 6.30am.”

“’Member the last time we did this?”

“Yes.”

“Too long, Mycroft.”

Mycroft kissed the back of his neck. “Go back to sleep, Greg.”

“Will you be here?”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

Greg squeezed his fingers, and listened to the man’s breathing. He turned around in Mycroft’s arms, his eyes slowly adjusting to the darkness. He reached out and touched his fingers to Mycroft’s lips.

He couldn’t help himself. He just had to feel it again. Because he would never be sure when the last time would be the last time. So he kissed him. Lightly at first. And as Mycroft began to respond, Greg kissed with more confidence, their lips moving lazily together.

Greg pulled back and touched Mycroft’s mouth with the tip of his index finger. “I have questions,” Greg said, stroking the outline of his mouth. Mycroft nodded. “Can we skip them for a bit?” Greg asked. “Because I. God, I want you so badly.”

“I can’t,” Mycroft whispered.

Greg felt his heart sink. Not again. “Can’t what?”

Mycroft’s voice was quiet, lost. “Greg, if we do this, I don’t believe I will ever be able to let you go.”

Greg caught his breath. He pressed his forehead against Mycroft’s. He felt the man start to move away and he reached out for him, stopping him.

“You said you cared for me?” Greg asked. He felt Mycroft nod, still feeling as though he would try and move from him at any moment. “Mycroft, I don’t know exactly what that meant, or what you feel about me.” Greg swallowed. “You don’t need to let me go. You can… you can have me however you want me. Whatever it means, I-”

Mycroft’s lips pressed firmly against his, cutting him off, and Greg melted into the touch. Their lips ghosted against each other, hot breath against Greg’s mouth, and Greg let the other man control the pace. Their chests pressed together and Greg let out a soft breath. Having Mycroft so close to him… “Oh God,” Greg gasped, closing a hand around Mycroft’s cheek.

“Greg,” Mycroft whispered, and Greg pressed his lips more firmly against his mouth, slowly moving them against his. He flicked his tongue out to touch Mycroft’s bottom lip. Mycroft shuddered against him, and Greg rubbed his thumb against the man’s cheekbone.

Greg pushed one leg in between Mycroft’s, kissing Mycroft’s lips, his filtrum, the corner of his mouth. Mycroft chased his kisses, one hand resting on the back of Greg’s neck.

Greg couldn’t help the smile that began to spread across his face. He knew he wanted to question Mycroft, ask him why it had taken so long for him to call, why he did this, didn’t do that, but he wanted him more than he’d ever wanted or needed anyone in his life.

Greg kissed him lightly. “I forgive you,” he whispered. “Whatever you think you did, I forgive you.”

He heard Mycroft’s sharp intake of breath and then their lips slammed together, a heady kiss which had their hands searching over skin, groping, nails scratching lightly. Mycroft began kissing down Greg’s neck, pushing Greg onto his back.

Greg stroked his skin, stroked wherever he could get his hands, feeling the length of his spine, the curve of his arse, the hard bones of his hips.

Mycroft’s tongue was doing impossibly pleasurable things against his neck, finding spots Greg didn’t even know existed. Greg let out a soft whine, his hands squeezing Mycroft’s arse. Five years, and what a waste. What a waste he hadn’t felt this every day for five years.

Greg tugged Mycroft’s hair, pulling him towards him for another kiss. The taste of him… It was Mycroft. God, it really was him. It had been all he wanted. For years, he’d dreamed of this, even when he shouldn’t have done. Mycroft’s hips lowered down against his, their cocks rubbing together through their underwear.

Greg arched up into the feel of it, pushing his hands down inside Mycroft’s boxers. He squeezed his arse. “Gorgeous,” he whispered against Mycroft’s lips.

Mycroft gasped softly and kissed him again. “I need you,” Mycroft said, so quietly Greg wasn’t sure he’d said anything at all. “I need you,” he said again.

“Need me?” Greg whispered back.

He felt Mycroft’s hand shake against the side of his face. Greg took hold of it, kissing each fingertip in turn before turning his hand up and kissing the palm. “It’s alright,” Greg murmured. “Everything is alright.”

Mycroft kissed him again before he leaned over to the side of the bed and opened the drawer. Greg let out a quiet breath in apprehension. Oh, please, yes, Mycroft, he begged in his head. Yes, I need you too. He couldn’t say it. He was afraid if he said it aloud that he’d scare the other man off with his need, desire, wanting.

Mycroft pressed the lube and a condom into Greg’s hand. Greg looked up at him. “You want me to… in you?” Greg asked, stroking a hand down Mycroft’s back. The younger man nodded, lowering his head and hiding his face in Greg’s neck. “That’s perfect,” Greg whispered. “It’s what I want. Look at me.” Mycroft lifted his head. Greg kissed him. “Don’t be scared,” he whispered. “I have you.”

He kissed the man again, gently rolling him down onto his back. Mycroft’s arms wound around him, and they rocked their hips together. Greg dipped his head to kiss Mycroft’s neck and flicked his tongue in the hollow of his throat. Mycroft shivered. “Please,” he whispered. Greg let out a slow breath. He needed to keep himself under control, because he could have just come on the spot at the sound of his voice.

He straddled his thighs and slowly pulled down Mycroft’s silk boxers, marvelling in the sight of him there, naked, exposed in front of him. All for him. Mycroft was so hard, his thighs quivering, one hand squeezing Greg’s shoulder.

Greg leaned down, pressing soft kisses to Mycroft’s hips. He licked the length of his cock before drawing the head into his mouth, sucking lightly. He heard Mycroft’s soft breath above him and Greg reached for the lube, coating his fingers as slickly as he could.

Mycroft parted his legs for him without a word, bending one at the knee. Greg lifted his head for a moment and dropped a few kisses to his thigh. He couldn’t even imagine how long it had been since Mycroft had done this. They never had together and Greg didn’t expect he’d been with someone new since Greg, but maybe…

“Mycroft?” Greg whispered.

“Yes?”

“Did you… anyone else at all after…”

“No,” Mycroft murmured. “No, it was always just you.”

Greg felt his heart leap. He didn’t want to be so glad that Mycroft had been so alone for so long, but he was. He was relieved. Grateful. He wished Mycroft had never pushed him away, that he’d never had to wait for Greg to do this to him. For him. With him.

Greg pressed his finger to Mycroft’s entrance, felt the muscle twitch against his finger. He took Mycroft’s cock back in his mouth, felt the other man’s fingers trace patterns against neck and upper back.

Greg eased his finger in to the first joint. Mycroft shuddered, and Greg kissed his stomach. He reached for one of Mycroft’s hands and entwined their fingers together. Together. That was how they were going to do this from now on. He didn’t know why he was so sure. Certain. 24 hours ago, he cursed Mycroft and hated everything he’d done to him and now… now, he knew he wouldn’t end this. Anything and everything between them came down to this.

Mycroft’s breathing was steady, almost relaxed, as Greg pressed his finger inside him. He couldn’t believe how calm the man seemed, when Greg’s heart was ready to beat right out of his chest. But Greg realised his head was clear. Empty of any thoughts at all. He didn’t know when anything had ever made as much sense as this. Quiet relief flooded through him and he heard Mycroft gasp as he curled his finger.

“More,” Mycroft whispered, and Greg swallowed, gently withdrawing his finger and pressing a second in. Mycroft’s hand squeezed his, and Greg felt his muscles tense around his fingers.

“I’ve got you,” Greg whispered, not sure exactly what the words meant, but they made sense to him. He had him. He’d grab him, support him when he fell, when he broke. “I have you.” Mycroft relaxed at that, and Greg pushed both fingers inside him. He looked down at his hand, it disappearing between Mycroft’s legs.

“Greg,” Mycroft murmured. Greg looked up at him, wishing it was lighter in the room so he could make out his expression more clearly.

“Yep?” Greg asked.

“I’ve got you too,” Mycroft said, emotion deep and clear in his voice.

Greg pressed his lips together, closing his eyes for a second before carefully spreading his fingers. “I know,” Greg whispered, and Mycroft made a soft sound at that.

Greg glanced up. He’d never heard Mycroft make anything above a sigh in bed. He spread his fingers again, stretching him slowly. Mycroft didn’t make another sound above his shaky breaths and Greg started to ease in a third finger.

Mycroft tensed up again and Greg squeezed his hand. Mycroft felt unbelievably tight around his fingers, and Greg couldn’t imagine he’d ever be inside him. In his wildest dreams, he never expected this could happen. He was so glad he was sober. So glad he could experience this with a clear head. The clearest head he’d had in seven months.

“I need you,” Mycroft said. “Please.”

Greg slowly, so carefully, withdrew his fingers, and reached for the condom. He opened the packet as quickly as he could, though he hadn’t realised how badly his hands were shaking.

Mycroft’s hand touched his, and he took the condom from him. “Come here,” Mycroft said quietly and Greg leaned up and kissed him. Greg quickly shuffled out of his boxers. Mycroft eased the condom onto his cock, and Greg shuddered with delight. He kissed Mycroft, long and deeply, as he grabbed the lubricant and slicked his sheathed cock.

Greg grabbed a pillow and Mycroft lifted his hips to help him push it underneath him. Greg trembled as he moved above Mycroft, adjusting so he could press his cock against his hole.

Mycroft’s hands rubbed up and down his arms. Greg dipped his head to brush their lips together, and he eased his hips forward, the head of his cock breaching Mycroft’s entrance. Their eyes both snapped to each other’s and Greg kissed his cheek, his jaw, his chin and then back to his lips.

He pressed in slowly until he was fully inside Mycroft, and let out a breath he didn’t even know he was holding.

Greg carefully moved his hips. And Mycroft groaned. Actually, groaned, aloud, made a sound. Greg stared at him. He rocked his hips again. Mycroft whispered “oh yes,” a soft, quiet moan leaving his lips straight after. And Greg couldn’t help it. The sounds went straight to his cock and he bent down and kissed Mycroft hard.

“Oh God, Mycroft,” Greg whispered against his mouth, thrusting hard into him and opening his mouth in disbelief as Mycroft made another sound. “Fuck, that noise was perfect,” Greg murmured. “Oh that sound… that sound, fuck me, you feel so good…”

And then he stopped talking. Because he realised while he was talking he was missing every sound Mycroft was making with every move of Greg’s hips, and he wanted to hear him. Hear his usual silent partner whose usual sign of enjoyment previously involved deep breathing. Oh, those noises…

Greg wrapped his hand around Mycroft’s cock, felt how wet it was with precome, and Greg couldn’t control himself anymore and he moved quickly, and Mycroft moved with him, clawing at his back.

He was lost in every sensation. His skin felt like it was on fire. Every touch from Mycroft spread heat around his body. No one had touched him in seven months. And now he was as physically close as he could be to another person. Giving as much as he possibly could give to another person. No. Not just any person. To Mycroft. Mycroft. And it was too much, because, Mycroft, Mycroft, wonderful, amazing, warm, so warm, Mycroft Holmes.

Greg swiped his thumb over the head of Mycroft’s cock and Mycroft shuddered, let out another of those unbelievable sounds as he came over Greg’s hand. One thrust later and Greg was coming too, letting go inside of Mycroft and he gasped and crumpled onto him.

Mycroft was clinging to him and Greg shuddered, pressing his face into his neck. Greg’s breaths were shaky and desperate, and he clung back to Mycroft’s arms with every ounce of his being.

Mycroft was pressing open-mouthed kisses to his shoulder. Greg let out a shaky breath, his body relaxing. His head felt so light. So clear.

Greg took some time to relax, before he finally stretched up, reluctantly withdrawing from Mycroft’s tight, overwhelming heat and sat on the side of the bed. He rubbed his face. Mycroft sat up too, his chest pressing against Greg’s back as Greg took off the condom and cleaned himself with the tissues. He handed some to Mycroft who murmured a thank you before cleaning himself up.

Greg turned to look at him. The early morning sun was rising behind the curtains, and he could see Mycroft more clearly than ever before.

Greg smiled at him, and Mycroft smiled back, slowly and easily and it lit his entire face.

Greg didn’t remember the last time he’d seen him smile like that. Unreservedly, honestly and openly.

Mycroft kissed him and rose from the bed, his fingers trailing over Greg’s skin as though he was unwilling to stop touching him even for a moment. He walked into the en-suite and Greg lay down on the bed above the sheets, staring up at the ceiling. He couldn’t believe that had just happened.

He looked down at his body, and then around at the room. Mycroft’s room.

Mycroft walked back in a few minutes later, a robe wrapped around his body. Greg rolled onto his side to look at him.

“I just need the loo,” Greg said. “And then we can go back to sleep. You’re not working tomorrow are you?”

“I’ll make the arrangements,” Mycroft murmured.

Greg smiled gratefully and walked into the bathroom. He looked in the mirror as he washed his hands. He turned the tap on and took a sip of water from it before splashing his face. His cheeks were flushed. But he saw he was smiling. And he didn’t remember the last time he smiled like that either. He hardly recognised that expression on his face.

He walked back into the bedroom naked and joined Mycroft under the covers. Mycroft smiled at him, and Greg reached for him. Mycroft rested his head on Greg’s chest, and they both closed their eyes.

Greg traced little patterns over his skin. He fought sleep for as long as he could. He wanted to lie here, awake, so he could only feel this. He was incapable of waging that war for long. Sleep raged through him and he drifted off with Mycroft in his arms.

 

* * *

 

Greg woke a few hours later, feeling an arm draped over his waist. Greg opened one eye. Mycroft was lying on his side facing him. Greg opened his eyes and smiled. “You alright?” Greg asked, not sure if he was awake.

“Fine,” Mycroft said, opening his own eyes.

Greg shuffled closer, pressing a leg between Mycroft’s and reaching to touch his cheek. Mycroft’s eyes fluttered closed as he pressed his cheek into Greg’s touch. Greg watched him for a few moments, a slight frown between his eyes. Harsh light of day, and the fear was back.

Mycroft’s hand reached towards Greg’s body, but stopped before it got there, dropping back down onto the covers.

Greg gently threaded his fingers through Mycroft’s, lifting his hand and placing it on his chest, over his heart.

Mycroft opened his eyes and looked down at their joined hands on Greg's chest. He looked up at Greg, his lips parted. Greg swallowed, hoping he’d know what it meant.

“We’re doing this, right?” Greg asked, his voice barely a whisper. “You and me. We’re doing this. We’re not fucking around this time.”

Greg watched Mycroft’s face. He remained still and impassive and Greg tried to keep the fear off his face. And then, ever so slowly, Mycroft lifted their joined hands from Greg’s chest, moving them so they covered his own heart. Greg leaned forward, pressing their foreheads together. “Please say it,” he whispered.

Mycroft’s eyes fluttered closed for a few long moments before he opened them again. “You have held my heart in your hands from the moment you wrapped Sherlock in a blanket and took him to your home because he was not safe to be around me or by himself. The first morning we woke up beside each other was the happiest of my life. And the mistake I made in pushing you away is the greatest mistake I have ever made. So yes, Greg. Yes, we are doing this, if you’ll have me.”

Greg swallowed and pressed his lips to his forehead. “I’ll have you,” he whispered against his head. He kissed his cheek. “I’ll have you,” he said again. He moved his head back to look at Mycroft properly. “You know, right? You _know_?”

Greg didn’t know why he couldn’t quite say _it_ but the words were not enough and they never would be. Not enough to describe how so many years on this was the only human being on the entire planet he ever wanted, desired, needed, craved, adored this much. Loved.

“I know,” Mycroft whispered and kissed him. “I know.” And it was enough that he knew, because they were doing this, and they’d never be apart again because God, being apart from Mycroft was like missing an arm, and missing a leg, and missing an entire torso. And if Mycroft were living on the streets and destitute and broken then Greg would still have him, because it was him. He was the most elegant creature he’d ever seen, he was broken but beautiful and scared and fragile, but the strongest man Greg knew. And yes, there were questions, and yes, there would be conversations they had to have.

But Greg had never taken the time or self-reflection to realise how broken he himself had become. And as he clung to Mycroft’s arms like he could never let them go, perhaps they glued their shattered souls together in that moment.

Greg didn’t know how long they lay there like that. It was the first time in his life time truly became no object. It didn’t matter if it was all day, all week, all year, because he would stay here for all eternity if it were possible. He would cherish him with every single beat of his heart.

And Mycroft looked at him. His expression was unguarded, open and full of deep emotion. And then he whispered “I love you.”


	53. My Soul Never Found A Buyer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The comments on the last chapter were overwhelming. All I can say is a heartfelt thank you and give you another chapter. This one got a bit lengthy too somehow! I wanted to thank everyone individually, but I also had to sleep and wanted to post this first and had no time. But I ADORE you all so much.  
> RogueFanKC, cltc75, karo, ahutchga1972, UnicornSoulHunter, JustLookFrightenedAndScuttle, psychicdreams, Abbennett, Anon, Tara148, beccab, Civility, Mice, oxana, cosmicsoup221b, Desiree, Novels, fayetree, Marie1982, Jaeh, Spooky831, ivefoundmygoldfish (melonpanparade), CommunionNimrod, Miss33, Maliciouspixie5, wildfillysama, GoldenKhaleesi, Kaci, WhiskeySally, TheBluestBlue, MoonRiver, vanya, ladyxdarcy, Sarah-in-lovem, OwlinAutumn, Velma, KingTaran, cafeshostakovich, miss_anthr0pe, Atiabis, Tappy33, Morgana_Holmes, HeyHoCheerio, theconsultinghobbit, vanya, Dark_LightRae, DrSyper, ainraatheexplorer, Jill -> You guys are amazing. You're the reasons I am able to get chapters out quickly, especially when the ol' muse isn't working and when I'm hungover as I have been today. THANK YOU ALL.

_January, 2012_

And Mycroft looked at him. His expression was unguarded, open and full of deep emotion. And then he whispered “I love you.”

Greg clung to him. He thought maybe he was holding on too tight, but he couldn’t move away and Mycroft didn’t tell him to. He had thought the words were unnecessary, but he was wrong, so wrong, because coming from Mycroft they were the best thing he’d ever heard.

So he looked at Mycroft. He saw his hesitant yet resilient expression gazing back at him.

“I love you,” Greg said, staring deep into his eyes. He saw Mycroft swallow. Their lips met in a brief kiss before resuming the embrace.

Greg hated himself for this. He should have fought for it all those years ago. If someone had told him all these years later they’d be trying again, he’d have told them they were barking up the wrong tree. But here they were.

How had he never realised before how hopelessly in love he’d been? Why had he caged his heart up so tightly he wasn’t even willing to listen to it when it murmured Mycroft with every beat? And they’d wasted those years, all those times they could have stood together against Moriarty, against every terrible thing which had come between them.

And it was always Mycroft. It had been Mycroft for so long now, the realisation hit Greg like an arrow to his chest.

He couldn’t even remember the moment he’d first felt it, because now they were together again it was as though that feeling had always existed.

His warm body, soft lips and unfathomable mind were the only things in the universe Greg needed. He wished he could explain it, and put it into words.

Mycroft kissed his forehead. “I suppose we need to talk.”

“Yeah,” Greg nodded. “But it’s still early and I think we should lie here for a bit longer. I think we’ve got a long day of talking ahead of us.”

“It worries me. How at the end of the day you may hear what I’ve done and change your mind.”

Greg looked at him. “Don’t be stupid. Even the horrible things you’ve done to me have never been about hurting me. Have they?”

“No.”

“Well, that’s alright then. I’m not going anywhere.” Greg kissed him lightly. “It’s okay now.”

“Let me go and make us some coffee.”

Greg smiled. “Want a hand?”

“No, I want to return to bed with you still here.” Mycroft smiled and slipped out of bed. He pulled a dressing gown on before returning to Greg and leaning over. Greg lifted his head and Mycroft hesitated for a second before kissing him, as though shocked he was allowed to do this at all.

Greg grinned and stretched out along the bed, watching as Mycroft left the room. He couldn’t help himself. He felt like he’d fallen into some unbelievable dream. He was craving nicotine, but his need to stay and wait for Mycroft outweighed it.

Mycroft returned with a tray 10 minutes later. He handed Greg a mug of coffee and slipped in beside him, opening a newspaper on his lap. Greg just smiled, curling up to his side and reading the headlines.

Mycroft turned his head and kissed his forehead. Greg let out a soft contented sigh. He felt more alive than he had for months.

He smiled as Mycroft took a sip from his coffee and began the crossword. They’d done this together once. On the best day they had spent together, at Mycroft’s favourite place in the world. Until Sherlock’s overdose had brought them back to earth with a crash.

Greg glanced at him and put his mug down on the side. “I’m dying for a cigarette,” Greg murmured.

Mycroft nodded and kissed his cheek. “I’ll have a car collect you so you can get some clothes from home. I hoped you might come back and then…” He trailed off.

Greg smiled and kissed him. “I’ll be back. I’ll be really quick and then we can have breakfast.” And though he wasn’t prone to saying it all the time, he said it again now. “I do love you.”

Watching Mycroft’s eyes light up made saying those very true but very difficult three words completely worthwhile. Mycroft drew their lips together for a brief kiss. “I love you,” he said, brushing the pad of his thumb against Greg’s chin. “See you in around half an hour?”

Greg nodded and stood up, pulling his clothes from the day before on. “I’ll be quick,” he said. He flashed Mycroft a quick smile.

He walked out of Crusader House and lit up as he stood on the pavement waiting for the car. He still felt as though he was existing in a haze, albeit a better one than the day before.

He got home, had a shower and got changed. He walked back to Mycroft’s road, wrapping his coat tightly around himself as he had another cigarette. He would try cutting them down, he thought, if only because it would break up the time he and Mycroft could spend together, and he didn’t imagine there would ever be enough of those as it was.

As he stood outside the big brown door of Crusader House, he hesitated. He felt the weight of a potentially life-altering conversation lying behind it. He was a jumble of nerves, shuffling his feet. But he was never one to give up and walk away. And it was Mycroft. He would participate in a life-altering conversation every day for the next year if that was it took.

Mycroft loved him.

Mycroft had said he loved him twice. And it was that thought which took Greg over the threshold and up the stairs.

He found Mycroft in the kitchen, buttering some croissants. He was wearing a shirt, but without his usual waistcoat and jacket, and a pair of black socks. Perfectly at home and relaxed. He turned when Greg entered the kitchen and without any hesitation, walked right up to him and kissed him as though they hadn’t kissed in days rather than a little under an hour.

Greg responded eagerly, wrapping his arms around Mycroft’s waist and stroking the soft shirt. He caught his breath when the kiss finally ended and they gazed at each other.

“Breakfast is almost ready,” Mycroft said. “Would you like orange juice or something else?”

“Orange is great, cheers.”

Greg took a seat at the kitchen table and Mycroft brought over the plates and drinks before sitting down.

Greg reached over and took hold of Mycroft’s hand as they enjoyed their breakfast. It seemed silly, even to himself, but it was as though if he let go then Mycroft would disappear. Mycroft didn’t seem to mind however, as he entwined their fingers together.

Eating crumbling croissants with one hand was no easy feat. Greg reached up and wiped a flake from Mycroft’s chin and the man smiled across at him. God, he was perfect in his way. Flawed. But Greg had already learnt to love those things about him.

Greg helped Mycroft clear everything away and he wandered to the living room while Mycroft made them each a coffee.

He glanced around at the room. Same brown sofa. Mycroft’s favourite chair beside the fireplace. Two further chairs, ones Greg was pretty sure he’d only sat in once or twice. He usually coveted the sofa, mostly in the hope it would mean Mycroft would take a seat beside him. Several bookcases. His cabinet with the decanter and glasses. Two tables. Several lamps.

Greg bit his lip preparing for the conversation they had never had. He was daunted in the face of it. He wasn’t much up for this type of chat.

He sat, not on the sofa, but on one of the two other seats in the room. He wanted to be distanced from Mycroft so he could think clearly, or at least try to.

If Mycroft was surprised to see him sat in that chair, he didn’t show it as he handed Greg a mug.

Mycroft took a seat on the sofa. He opened his mouth, paused and closed it again. Greg pulled a face, glancing around the living room again and avoiding his eyes.

“How are we going to do this?” Greg asked.

“I have no idea.”

“It’s just a conversation,” Greg said, but that wasn’t how he felt.

“Potentially the most important conversation of my life.”

Greg raised his eyebrows. “You negotiate goodness knows what and this is the most important conversation of your life?”

“I have very little experience of this sort of conversation. I usually know the end result when negotiating. But this isn’t a negotiation.”

“No,” Greg agreed.

“My instinct is to approach this in a very logical fashion. Perhaps chronologically, but I feel you’ll get swept up in the passion of the piece and destroy the order quite quickly.”

“But that’s a conversation, surely? It doesn’t have an order and it does weird things and goes to places you’re not expecting it to.”

“Yes. Therein lies my concern.”

“Ah.”

“What if I forget to say something important?” Mycroft asked.

“Then you can say it when you remember it. Mycroft, you’re the king of conversations.”

“Not this kind.”

“Because it means something to you.”

“Quite right.”

Greg rubbed his face. “Do we need to make an agenda?” he joked.

Mycroft began to smile. “You think I’m being ridiculous.”

“Yeah, I do. I hate this kind of talking too, remember? But we’ve got to do this.” Greg sighed. “God, there’s just… there’s too bloody much, isn’t there? I mean, this goes back years.”

“I know.”

“Have you ever blamed me for Sherlock’s death?” Greg asked.

“No.”

“Did you go to the Yard to discuss getting my job back?”

“Yes. I had hoped it would have happened more quickly, they were taking too much time.”

“Right,” Greg muttered. “Right, so this is the first thing. What I don’t like is you went behind my back to get me my job back. Maybe I wouldn’t have been able to without you, I don’t know, but I wish you’d told me first.”

“It was all very complicated,” Mycroft said. “We had completed the paperwork to clear Sherlock’s name and all I wanted to-”

“-Hold up, you’ve done paperwork to clear Sherlock’s name?”

Mycroft sighed, as though wishing he hadn’t just said that. “In a manner of speaking.”

“What manner?” Greg asked.

“We put together all the evidence and we gave it to your superiors so they would give you your job back.”

“Mycroft, I’ve been working for three months straight to gather that evidence, and you’re telling me it was already done before I even had my job back?”

“I contemplated giving it to you,” Mycroft told him.

“But you didn’t. Why?”

“Because you needed to do it yourself.”

“Have you given it to the Attorney General?” Greg asked.

“No.”

Greg stared at him. “So you’re willing to let Sherlock’s name continue to be slandered left, right and centre for even longer because you thought I’d - what? Blame myself for his death if I didn’t clear his name?”

“That’s the long and short of it, yes.”

“I already do blame myself, Mycroft! And clearing his name does not change a damned thing. He’s still dead and it’s still on me.”

“It is not on you.”

“How is it not on me?” Greg asked. “I let everyone think he was a criminal. I did just what Moriarty wanted, and in the end he killed himself over it. But Sherlock never did those things, he was not a fake and… I can’t believe you’d already done the paperwork.” Greg threw his hands up in the air. “God’s sake.”

“Anthea was ready to give it to you. It was all filed and ready to go to your office.”

“But?”

“I told her no.”

Greg shook his head. “You’re a controlling bastard sometimes, Mycroft. You can’t play people like this. You can’t play with people’s emotions, it’s not fair.”

“But look how much better you are for doing the work yourself.”

“Better? Better?” Greg laughed. “Mycroft, I’m a fucking mess. I am not better.”

“Greg-”

“Don’t.” Greg pointed at him. “You did this to me. So, you deserve to hear it. You abandoned me. You made me feel like you blamed me Sherlock’s death. Until yesterday, I was convinced you did. When you called me, you asked me how John was. After everything we have been to each other for the past seven years, you didn’t even ask how I was.”

“I couldn’t.”

“Couldn’t? You didn’t even have the decency to ask how I was? You absolute dickhead. You were right, Mycroft, I was wrong, I’m sorry. After everything you’re telling me, I am about to change my mind about us.”

“I was in love with you and you were not in love with me and I couldn’t bear to ask how much pain you were in because it would have broken my heart.”

“What heart?” It was a low blow, and Greg knew it the second the words left his mouth.

They stared at each other across the room. Greg’s furious gaze met Mycroft’s icy stare. It was as though Mycroft had begun to build an iceberg in the centre of the room and Greg simply set it on fire.

“You should never have left me,” Greg finally spat, leaning forward in the chair. “You build me up and break me every single time.”

“And you think I am far better than I am. So when I hurt you, you wonder how I could be so hateful. You don’t realise that is just how I am.”

“No it’s not,” Greg said. “You pretend it is. But I know how much you loved Sherlock and how much you tried to protect him. So, don’t act like you’re made of stone. Because I know that’s not true.”

“Sherlock was just useful to me.”

“Cut the bullshit, Mycroft! You loved him. You have spent your entire life trying to protect him. Why did you break up with me? When Sherlock had that overdose you left me.”

“Because I was emailed pictures of you entering and leaving your flat to collect some clothes from home. While Sherlock was at the hospital, your life was in danger because of me. You had already been hurt once when you were pushed into the Thames. And I wanted to protect you more than anything. And I left you because I was happy. And every time I have ever been happy in my life, Sherlock has almost died. I loved you Greg. I loved you even then. I couldn’t bear to see you in danger.”

Greg sank back down into the chair. “You loved me? Back then?”

“With my whole heart.”

“Why didn’t you…”

“I couldn’t.”

“Why?”

“I don’t deserve your heart in return.”

Greg’s heart broke for him. “Mycroft, you have it,” he whispered. “You had it then. I was yours. Why don’t you see that? You had every single piece of me. And you left me.”

Mycroft looked down at his knees.

Greg sighed and rubbed his leg. “In that year you and me were… whatever the hell it was, I promised myself I would never tell you how I felt. Because you were so sure it wasn’t more than sex, it was just physical. Then we woke up together and everything changed. It changed, didn’t it? I wasn’t the only one who felt it.”

“Yes.”

“We woke up together and we spent the entire day like that was how we were going to spend the rest of our lives.”

“Yes.”

“I didn’t know I loved you then,” Greg finally admitted. “Sherlock told me I did, when his flat exploded. I thought he was just being a prick, but then I realised he was right. He was always right, the dickhead.”

“Yes,” Mycroft smiled fondly. Sadly.

“You have to give me something here, Mycroft.”

“I fell in love with you the night Sherlock pinned me up against the wall and you intervened, do you remember?”

Greg nodded.

“You pulled me towards you and no one had ever looked at me like that. And I wanted… I wanted to never let you leave my flat again. And when we had intercourse for the first time, I gave myself to you completely and utterly. I left myself open to you.”

“But after that - just months after that - you left.”

“I had to.”

“You deserve to be happy, Mycroft.”

“I cannot be that without you.”

Greg looked at him. He wasn’t masking his expression and his feelings at all. He had left himself vulnerable. His happiness, his entire life, was linked to Greg being with him. And God, it hurt to think he’d felt like this for so long. Greg knew he’d never been loved this much in his entire life. And it was terrifying.

How do you hold a love like that in your hands? How do you hold something so beautiful, knowing you can’t always protect it, knowing how delicate it is and how easily fractured.

“You were right about Sherlock,” Greg finally said. “I did need to clear his name myself. But you were wrong to ignore me. You just cut me out.”

“I apologise.”

“Mycroft, you know me better than anyone. I don’t know how, you just do. And you knew you pushing me away like that was the worst thing you could have done, but you still did it. I don’t care why, you still upped and left. And it feels like you’ve done that more than once so if I’m worried it’ll happen again, I think I have a right to be.”

Mycroft nodded. “I understand.”

“And look, I’m no idiot. I know Moriarty being dead doesn’t mean this is all over. It’s too big right? A big terrorist network and someone else will step into his shoes.”

Mycroft nodded again.

Greg frowned, thinking. “And I know Moriarty wasn’t just about Sherlock. Is was about you too. And that means I’m probably in danger or will be at some point. So I need you to promise me you will never leave me to protect me again.”

Mycroft’s brows furrowed.

“I mean it,” Greg said. “If you can’t promise me that you will never push me away again, even if it’s to save my life, then I’m walking out of that door right now.”

“Even if I made that promise, I can never guarantee I could be entirely open with you.”

“That’s fine. I won’t ask about your work, Mycroft. Have you ever known me to pry?”

“No.”

“So I won’t ask, and you won’t have to lie,” Greg said. “But you have to promise me you won’t push me away again, whether it’s to save my life or not. I can’t handle that again.”

“I promise.”

“Thank you.”

“But there are secrets,” Mycroft said. “Ones I’m sure would mean you would never wish to speak to me again if you knew the truth.”

“I bet there are,” Greg said. “But if this is your attempt to scare me off you can stop that right now. I’m not some naïve child. I know who you are, I know what you do for a-living. But strip all that away and just look at you and me. We get each other. We have brilliant chats, we love spending time together and there is no doubt in my mind that we’re completely compatible. So, yeah. I know there will be secrets. I know some of those secrets will involve me. But I can live with that. If you can live with my temper and the fact that I am no where near as tidy as you are, then I can live with it.”

“You are the most remarkable man.”

Greg smiled. “I’m not really, but cheers for saying it.”

Mycroft glanced down at his knees and then back at Greg. “Greg, there are things I wish I could tell you. And I can’t.”

“To protect me, right?”

Mycroft nodded. “And to protect others.”

“See, that’s what I mean. Protect me all you want. Whatever you have to do. Just don’t push me away again. Just…” Just don’t leave me.

“I’ll never leave,” Mycroft said. Greg glanced at him and swallowed. “I know you don’t believe that, but I will prove it to you.”

Greg just nodded. “Gonna take time, yeah? There’s too much shit between us to just have one conversation and sort it out.”

“I agree.”

Greg looked down at his knees. “The funeral. You shot me this look, it was pretty… well, it convinced me you blamed me. What was that about?”

“I shouldn’t have done that.”

“That wasn’t what I asked,” Greg said.

“Moriarty wanted to destroy Sherlock in every possible way. He had a put out a hit on you. I needed to act as though I was angry at you. One wrong move by me and that man would have had you killed, regardless of the fact Sherlock was no longer there. So I pretended I despised you.”

“Who was it?”

“He went by the name of Owen Sharratt.”

Greg stared at him. “Jesus Christ. The cop on my team?”

“You’re safe now,” Mycroft said.

“Am I?”

“Yes. I promise.”

Greg decided he didn’t really want to know how Mycroft was so sure he was safe. Instead he nodded and stood up. He wandered over to the sofa and took a seat. Mycroft turned to face him and Greg leaned forward, brushing their lips together. “I can’t believe I can kiss you,” Greg said. “It doesn’t feel real. I think I’ll wake up in a minute.”

Mycroft kissed him tenderly. “If this is all a dream, I’d like to never wake up.”

Greg pressed their foreheads together. “Mycroft,” he whispered. Mycroft’s eyes flickered closed. “I wish we didn’t waste all that time,” Greg murmured.

Mycroft reached for his hand. “Don’t.”

Greg swallowed and shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. All that stuff. It doesn’t matter. If you want me then you’ve got me.”

Mycroft looked at him. “Like I’ve never wanted anyone else.”

Greg closed his eyes for a brief moment, savouring those words. “We’re just… just gonna have to start over, aren’t we? I’ll just have to learn to trust you again.”

“You’ve given me so many chances already,” Mycroft said.

“You deserved it.” Greg gazed back at him. His chest still felt tight, like he was gripped by fear. “Don’t leave me,” he said. And those words, trapped by a vice in his chest ever since he was a child, made him feel so scared and vulnerable.

Mycroft’s hand reached up to stroke his cheekbone, just for a brief second before dropping his hand to his lap. “My grandfather was the greatest man I have ever known,” Mycroft said. “Not necessarily the most intelligent. And he certainly drew no particular acclaim for his achievements throughout his life. But he went to war. And he carried on his back an injured man who remained by his side for the rest of their lives.”

Mycroft looked down at his hands. “I have tried so very hard to not let my feelings in. Even with you, I pushed them aside. When my grandfather died, I was given his ring. I have worn it since I was 18 years old. And it reminds me, sometimes, that it is okay to have a heart.” He looked up at Greg. “Loving you all these years, when we have been apart, has felt at times like my greatest curse. But it has also been my greatest honour. I will never leave you. You don’t need to be afraid anymore.”

Greg rubbed his face. “God, I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t need to say a word. Just kiss me.”

And so Greg kissed him. Slow and sensually, just drawing their bodies together. One of Mycroft’s hands wrapped around the back of his head like he was never going to let him go. Greg heard himself groan into the kiss.

Mycroft’s thumb rubbed against his cheek, and he broke the kiss, his eyes searching Greg’s face. Greg studied him for a moment.

“What’s wrong?” Greg asked.

“Nothing at all,” Mycroft said, and he began to smile. “Not a single thing.”

A slow smile spread over Greg’s face and he kissed him again, dropping a hand onto Mycroft’s shoulder and trailing it down his arm. He let his fingers drift over the inside of Mycroft’s wrist and he shuddered a bit. Greg nipped his bottom lip and then pulled back again.

“Got all day, yeah?” Greg asked.

“We have,” Mycroft agreed.

“Good.” Greg let go of him and stood up, holding out his hand.

Mycroft shook his head in amusement. “We only got out of bed a few hours ago.”

Greg grinned. “Yeah, but how often are we going to have a whole day to ourselves, hey?”

“I don’t know,” Mycroft murmured, as he took Greg’s hand. “I’m planning on us having quite a few.”

“We’re really doing this.”

“We’re really doing this,” Mycroft agreed, looking up at him.

“Why aren’t you freaking out?” Greg asked. “You know. Emotions and feelings and all that stuff.”

“What’s the point?” Mycroft asked. “In pretending not to care, have I hurt any less? But love is a dangerous game, and I fear it’s one I won’t negotiate very well.”

“Yeah, but it’s worth it, right?”

“I never thought it could be.”

“But?”

Mycroft smiled softly. “What have you done to me?”

Greg squeezed his fingers and smiled back. “Come to bed with me.”

“It would be my pleasure.” Mycroft stood up and rested his free hand on the side of Greg’s neck. “Though, I wasn’t sure we were done talking.”

“We’re not,” Greg said. “But it doesn’t work like that. We could sit and talk all day, but we’d never cover it all. Some stuff we just have to get to when we get there.”

“Can you ever trust me again?”

Greg nodded and kissed him lightly. “I will. Give me some time.”

“I understand.”

They exchanged two sweet, chaste kisses. “What happens now?” Greg asked.

“In the immediate future or long-term?”

“Either.”

“I suspected sex was on the cards. Dinner. A film. More sex and falling asleep. And then Anthea will co-ordinate our days off so we can see each other as often as possible. I will empty a bedside cabinet, and you’ll bring around a toothbrush and some spare clothes. I will navigate this relationship, I suspect, like a child learning to walk and you will have to act as our guide.”

Greg laughed. “I’m no expert.”

“Then we’ll simply have to stumble along.”

“We did alright last time really,” Greg said. “Considering how much we denied we were in a relationship, I think we had a pretty good handle on it.”

Mycroft smiled. “No more questions this time though. We are a couple.”

Greg nuzzled Mycroft’s neck. “God. That sounds good.” He pressed his lips to the side of Mycroft’s neck, flicking his tongue out to taste his skin. Mycroft let out a breathy laugh and Greg grinned at him.

Mycroft pulled Greg closer to him and drew Greg’s bottom lip in between his own. Greg sighed, resting his hands on Mycroft’s hips. He couldn’t believe this was happening. They kissed slowly, relearning each other. Mycroft’s mouth was a wondrous thing.

They deepened the kiss, their tongues tangling. Greg took hold of Mycroft’s shirt with both his hands and walked them backwards until Mycroft was pressed up against the wall.

They stared at each other, breathing hard, before diving into another hard, all-consuming kiss. Mycroft’s hands were everywhere, under his clothes, above his clothes, in his hair, on the back of his neck.

Melting into the kiss, they clung to each other. Too many years of waiting.

Greg lightly bit Mycroft’s chin and stepped back enough to give the other man a chance to turn towards the bedroom. Greg followed, stripping off his t-shirt as he went.

Mycroft turned to him and smiled and Greg all but dived on him, pushing him back onto the bed. Mycroft let out a faint ‘oof’ sound as he went, and Greg immediately set about unbuttoning his shirt.

He loved Mycroft’s suits. He loved the layers and undressing him, but having him easily accessible with the unfastening of some buttons was just what he needed. He kissed all over his chest, his fingers brushing through the fine hair on his chest.

He drew one nipple into his mouth, rocking his hips down against Mycroft’s. Mycroft moved with him, tipping his head back and letting out a delicious sigh of pleasure.

Greg captured his lips with his own, while Mycroft unfastened both their trousers. Greg rolled off him for a moment to allow them both to undress. Mycroft finished first, and straddled Greg’s hips, lining their cocks up together.

Greg groaned, curling one hand around the back of Mycroft’s neck to kiss him again. He wrapped his legs over the back of Mycroft’s, their tongues tangling.

They found an easy rhythm with each other. The night before had been full of heavy, almost overwhelming emotion.

This time they fought for closeness and connection, Greg’s hands trailing over Mycroft’s arse, his fingers dipping between his cheeks to rub against his hole. Mycroft wrapped one hand around them both, and Greg arched up at his touch.

In perfect unison with one another, they moved and panted, kissing and nipping and licking. No words were necessary, apart from Greg’s occasional murmur of ‘oh God’ and ‘yeah, yeah, yes’. Mycroft whispered Greg’s name, just once, and Greg was undone, letting a soft moan spill from his lips as he came.

He kissed Mycroft hard, tangling his fingers through his hair as he guided the other man through his own orgasm, and they chased each other’s lips as they moved from frantic desire to sated bliss.

Greg cradled Mycroft’s face in his hands as he pressed closed-mouth kisses all over his cheeks, brushing his lips over places he thought he may never have kissed before. He wouldn’t be satisfied until he’d explored every inch of his skin with his mouth. And even then, he knew he’d want to learn it all over again.

It was all very well to travel new lands, conquer and claim them as your own, but settling and making a home there… now that was what discovery was for.

After cleaning them both, Mycroft lay on his side, sitting up on his elbow. One hand was resting tenderly on the side of Greg’s face, his thumb leisurely stroking his cheek. Greg looked at him and smiled. Mycroft smiled back at him like Greg was some treasured thing. Something to be adored.

Mycroft brought their mouths together, and in a post-coital haze Greg kissed back with a contented sigh.

This was the man he loved. Trust would come later. He had been left by Mycroft before, when they had not been quite so open about their feelings for one another, to be sure. But the remnant feelings of that rejection still lingered and that would have to be rebuilt. Nothing could contribute to that but time.

Greg reached for Mycroft, rubbing his thumb against his bottom lip. Mycroft kissed it and they both smiled, too caught up in each other to even consider the fact there was anything in the universe but this room.

He had been in love a few times in his life. He’d felt the variations of teenage lust masquerading as love. He’d felt the surety of never-ending, until the day we die love. He’d felt a love built on companionship and need. And then there was this.

Greg had never believed there was a single person out there for each person. If he had, he’d have given up on ever having a relationship after he and Caroline had broken up. But somehow, he felt a connection between them he’d never felt with anyone before. Maybe it was Mycroft’s ability to read his mind. That Greg never needed to say anything aloud, because with one look Mycroft knew something was wrong, and could even work out what it was.

And that Mycroft would give him space or draw him close without even needing to ask. Less than 24 hours. And this was his other half. It wasn’t a gamble. It wasn’t reckless. Because Greg was so sure he’d never been cared for this much.

Greg’s phone buzzed. He groaned. “Oh, the world can go to hell,” he muttered, rolling onto his side to retrieve it from his jeans on the floor. It was a message from Sally to say a jury had found a manslaughter suspect not guilty.

Greg replied quickly.

 

MESSAGES  
1.12pm: Shame, but oh well. Am  
turning my phone off. I’m on a  
day off. If it’s really, Really  
urgent, you’ll find me at Crusader  
House in Pall Mall.

 

He sent the message and turned his phone off. He returned his attention to Mycroft. “So, what’s the plan?” Greg asked.

“Plan?”

“Yeah. We’ve got all night, right? So, dinner?”

Mycroft smiled and rested his head on Greg’s chest. “Dinner. Yes. I suppose that should be on the cards really.”

Greg laughed and brushed his hand through Mycroft’s hair. “Believe it or not, we both have to move at some point.”

“Then I echo your sentiments. The world should go to hell.”

Greg laughed and kissed the top of Mycroft’s head, wrapping both arms around him and tangling their legs together. They lay like that for a while, like newlyweds with a reluctance to be separated even for a second.

Finally, Mycroft pressed one kiss to Greg’s jaw and rolled off him, standing up and putting his dressing gown on. “I’ll start making some lunch once I’m finished in the bathroom.”

Greg grinned, stretching out naked on top of the covers.

Mycroft’s eyes drifted over his body and he paused for a moment, a soft smile on his face. “Wonderful,” was all he murmured before disappearing into the en-suite.

Greg allowed himself a few more moments on Mycroft’s bed before getting up and putting his clothes back on. He picked up Mycroft’s, folding them and placing them on the side of the bed for him to pick up when he returned, and wandered back out to the living room. He had one quick cigarette on the balcony, smiling to himself as he remembered the sex they’d had outside in that very spot once.

He walked into the kitchen. He decided he may as well get comfortable and make himself at home here. He made them both a coffee, and Mycroft returned to him a few minutes later, dressed again. Mycroft’s lips grazed against the side of his neck.

Greg grinned and stirred their mugs. “What were you thinking for lunch?” he asked.

“Jacket potatoes and salad?”

“Sure.”

Greg sat down with his mug at the table and mentally catalogued the cupboards Mycroft was getting the food out from.

“What do you do on days off?” Greg asked him.

“Work,” Mycroft said, as he put the potatoes in the oven. “My days off are usually spent here, but working anyway.”

“Do you have to though? Work?”

“No. Parliament does sleep, though not a lot. Matters of national security tend to be less predictable, but my office knows which matters require my attention and which don’t.”

Greg nodded. “So… when you have a day off like this, it really is a day off?”

Mycroft turned to look at him. “Yes, it is. No one can work every day.” He walked over to Greg and cupped his cheek. “You’re exhausted,” he said.

Greg shrugged a bit. “I know I’ve been working hard but I wouldn’t say I was exhausted.”

“When did you last have a day off?”

“Today?”

Mycroft nodded. “I thought as much.”

Greg sighed and rested his hand over Mycroft’s, securing its place on his cheek. “It was about Sherlock. I had to do it quickly.”

Mycroft nodded, but his eyes dropped from Greg’s face.

“You alright?” Greg asked.

“I’m fine.”

Greg watched him. “I made it all about me, didn’t I? I didn’t even take into account the fact that you’re grieving too.”

“Well, perhaps we both need looking after,” Mycroft said, dropping his hand from Greg’s face.

“Yeah,” Greg agreed. “God, I wish that…” He shook his head. “I just want to be around for you from now on, that’s all.”

“You are. Come to the living room.”

Greg nodded and got up, carrying his coffee through. He sat down on the sofa and Mycroft set his mug down on the table before kneeling down beside the fire as he turned it on. Greg smiled, allowing himself a cheeky glance at his arse. His partner’s arse.

“Mycroft?”

“Mm?”

“What term do you like?” Greg asked.

Mycroft looked at him. “Term for what?”

“Boyfriends?” Mycroft pulled a face and Greg grinned. “Lovers?”

“Certainly not.”

“Squeeze?” Greg grinned, stretching out along the sofa.

“Good gracious, is that really what people call each other?”

Greg laughed. “My flame?”

“That sounds appalling.”

“My fancy man?”

“I refuse to sound like a prostitute.”

Greg grinned and sipped his coffee. “Better half?”

“I wouldn’t believe for a single moment that I’m the better half in this relationship.”

Greg disagreed, but he’d leave that for now. “Partner?”

Mycroft paused for a moment. “Oh. Yes, partner.”

Greg smiled. “Not that it matters, but y’know… there’s got to be something nice in saying ‘I can’t go to the pub tonight, I’m spending time with my partner’.”

Mycroft got the fire going. “I wasn’t aware there were so many quandaries to negotiate at a start of a relationship.”

“There’s not,” Greg grinned. “But you’re the special sort.”

Mycroft laughed and smiled over at him.

“Are we a secret?” Greg asked.

“Not at all. We can go out tonight, if you want?”

“Hm. No, but thanks. I think I’d just like a quiet one with you.”

Mycroft nodded. “Me too. I will let Anthea know the moment I get into work on Monday. I’ll get a key cut for you.”

Greg smiled slowly. “Yeah?”

“Of course. My home is your home.”

“I’ll do the same then,” Greg said. “And then bring some shirts and boxers round. You might as well do the same, I’ll clear some space for you. Not that I guess you want to stay over at my place, but just in case…”

“I have no qualms about staying at your flat.”

“I only live five minutes away.”

“We don’t need to spend all our time here.”

“It’s nicer though,” Greg said. “I don’t mind to be honest. I’m going to have a look through your film collection. Got any preferences? Particular mood for anything?”

Mycroft stood up and took a seat on the sofa as Greg walked into his office. “Whatever you like,” Mycroft called after him.

Greg opened the cabinet to find Mycroft’s DVD collection. On the top of the box were the extended editions of all three Lord Of The Rings films. Greg stared at them. He remembered that drunken conversation, comparing Sherlock to Aragorn and his shock that Mycroft had never seen them. They were still wrapped in the plastic, so he evidently hadn’t got around to watching them yet.

Greg smiled to himself. That Mycroft had even considered buying the films after that conversation was amazing. But he’d actually gone and done it…

Greg picked up The Fellowship Of The Ring and carried it through. He held the case up and Mycroft nodded. Greg took the picture down from in front of the television and put the disk in.

“We’ll have to pause it to put lunch together in around 40 minutes,” Mycroft said.

“Yeah, that’s fine.” Greg turned the TV on and shut the curtains. He got onto the sofa, stretching his legs out and allowing Mycroft to sit between them, leaning back against Greg’s chest. Greg wrapped his arms around him and pressed play.

Mycroft’s hands came to rest over his, and Greg kissed the back of his neck, revelling in the contented sigh from the man in his arms.

Mycroft paused the film after a while and turned to give Greg a quick kiss.

“Want a hand with dishing up?” Greg asked him.

“No, thank you. But you’re welcome to make some drinks.”

Greg grinned and followed Mycroft to the kitchen. Mycroft dished up their potatoes and salad while Greg boiled the kettle. While he waited, he walked up behind him, pressing his chest against Mycroft’s back. He rested his chin on Mycroft’s shoulder as he wrapped his arms around him.

Mycroft didn’t say anything as he took hold of Greg’s hands. They stood like that for a few moments, neither appearing to care that the potatoes were getting cold.

Greg just needed to be near him.

Eventually he stepped away and finished making the coffees.

After eating, they returned to the sofa, curling up together under a blanket. They kissed lazily during the film, discussing some of the contrasts between the books and films as it went on. Mycroft seemed to enjoy it, which was a win in Greg’s book.

Once the film had finished, they prepared dinner together. They shared small touches. A brush of a hand against a back as one moved past the other. Fingers touching as they handed over cooking utensils.

“Feels like we’ve been doing this for years,” Greg marvelled as he stirred the rice.

“It’s always been that way,” Mycroft said, checking on the chilli con carne. “Is the wine next to you?”

Greg nodded and handed him the bottle. Mycroft poured them each a glass. They ate dinner in the living room, watching the news.

“Did you have anything to do with that?” Greg asked, stretching out to put his feet in Mycroft’s lap.

Mycroft frowned at the television. “On the periphery,” he said. He took hold of one of Greg’s socked feet and peeled the sock off.

Greg laughed. “Sorry if they smell.”

“They’re fine.” Mycroft began to rub his thumbs into the arch of Greg’s foot. Greg groaned, tipping his head back. He watched Mycroft’s face as the man rubbed each of his feet. Greg felt his cock stir.

Mycroft turned to him then, suddenly serious. “I’ve let you down terribly,” he said.

“Mycroft, no.”

“I have. You’re quite right when you say I abandoned you. I would have done anything to keep you safe. But in doing so, I only caused you pain. How can you ever forgive that?”

“I just will,” Greg said, shuffling along the sofa so he could reach out and touch Mycroft’s cheek. “I already have.” Greg studied him. “What is it?”

Mycroft shook his head and Greg moved closer still, kissing him lightly. “It’s you and me, yeah?” Greg said. “We got here in the end. Come to bed with me.”

“It’s only 7.30pm.”

“I know,” Greg said. “But I want to feel you. We’ve been sad for too long, Mycroft. It’s never going to go away, not really, but we’ve got to start living again. It’s what he would have wanted.” Greg smiled. “Come on.”

Mycroft nodded and they both got up from the sofa. Greg began to wander to the bedroom as Mycroft turned the television and fire off.

“He loved you in his way,” Mycroft said as Greg reached the door.

Greg frowned. “Who?”

“Sherlock.”

Greg snorted and opened the door.

“In his way,” Mycroft repeated, following him, turning lights off as he went.

Greg turned the lamp on and pulled off his t-shirt. He sat on the edge of the bed and looked up at Mycroft. He shrugged. “Even forgetting who blames who, I’ll never forgive myself.”

“Time heals the deepest wounds, but it doesn’t fix everything,” Mycroft said.

“Sometimes I see him fall,” Greg said as Mycroft took a seat beside him on the bed. “I have recurring nightmares about it. Sometimes he says it was my fault, other times he just drops.”

Mycroft silently took hold of Greg’s hand.

Greg hesitated before he spoke. “Sometimes I’m in the office at work, and I’m tired and stuff, you know, working late. And then I just… I see a movement outside through the glass and I think, fuck, Sherlock’s here to demand a case and then I realise he’s not. And it’s just the cleaner outside or something. And I dream about Moriarty sometimes. He’s staring at me. And I watch him snap Sherlock’s neck.”

Mycroft’s thumb moved in slow comforting strokes as Greg let the words out. “And the nightmares they’re just… the drink stops them. If I drink enough then I just pass out and don’t dream at all, but then I feel bad in the morning and even more tired.” Greg swallowed. He hadn’t even admitted to himself that he had been drinking too much lately. “There’s times when I wish I never met him. That maybe all of this… It wouldn’t have happened. I guess I’d still be married to Caroline. Having you.” Greg shook his head. “There’s you and…”

“I know,” Mycroft said, kissing his temple.

“It might have taken a bloody long time, but we’re here now,” Greg finally managed to get out. It wasn’t quite the sentence he wanted to say, but he hadn’t been able to find the words. But Mycroft squeezed his hand.

“I know.” He leaned in for a kiss, and Greg responded, lying down on his back and pulling Mycroft with him. He unfastened Mycroft’s shirt and pushed it off. Mycroft made quick work of undoing both their trousers and they shuffled out of them until they were lying in their underwear on their sides.

Greg let his finger trail down Mycroft’s nose and over his lips, his chin and down his neck. He gently pushed Mycroft down onto his back and straddled his hips.

He lowered his mouth to kiss Mycroft’s neck. “Here?” he asked, flicking his tongue against his skin.

“Mm,” Mycroft agreed.

Greg drew one nipple between his lips, flicking his tongue against it. Mycroft shuddered and Greg grinned as he turned his attention to the other one. Mycroft stroked his back. Greg sat up and Mycroft stroked his hands over Greg’s chest. He brushed a finger against Greg’s left nipple.

Greg nodded. “Yeah,” he said simply, shivering in pleasure as Mycroft repeated the action. Mycroft’s other hand brushed against his side and Greg burst out laughing.

“Ah, not there,” Mycroft murmured, amused.

Greg laughed. “No, tickling isn’t sexy.”

Mycroft’s hands moved to his thighs. He stroked his finger on the inside of one of them. “You like this,” he said.

Greg nodded. “Yeah.”

They looked at each other and smiled. Greg kissed him again, leisurely and lazily. When he pulled away, Mycroft was smiling up at him, an adoring look in his eyes.

“Want you to have me,” Greg said. He rolled off Mycroft, pulling his boxers down. Mycroft smiled at him, taking off his own underwear. Greg looked him up and down. “Yeah,” he whispered. “Yeah, you’re just as perfect as I remembered.”

“Older,” Mycroft said, reaching for the drawer.

Greg winced when he saw the scars running over Mycroft’s back. He’d almost forgotten about them, but he didn’t comment. “Still perfect from where I’m looking,” Greg said. He reached out and trailed one finger along the top scar. Mycroft tensed a bit under his touch but didn’t pull away.

“Damaged,” Mycroft said.

“We’re both damaged,” Greg replied, sitting up to kiss along the scar. Mycroft took the box out of the drawer and opened it, putting the lubricant and a condom on the bed. He sat still while Greg’s fingers traced over the scars along his back. Greg dropped his hand. “Yeah,” he said. “Just perfect.”

Mycroft turned to him and smiled. Greg tugged him close and they kissed, slowly at first before increasing the intensity. Greg curled his fingers in Mycroft’s soft hair. Mycroft kissed a trail down his body, paying attention to flicking his tongue against Greg’s nipples and stroking the insides of his thighs.

The feel of his hands had Greg parting his legs. Mycroft flicked his tongue against Greg’s cock and he shuddered, curling one hand in the covers and stroking Mycroft’s shoulder with the other.

Mycroft took Greg’s length into his mouth and Greg curled his toes. He steadied himself, lying still as Mycroft’s hot tight lips moved against him, his tongue flicking in all the right ways.

“God, Mycroft,” Greg murmured. “God, I’m not gonna last if y’keep it up like that.”

Mycroft sucked harder for a moment before lifting his head. Greg grinned at him and passed him the lubricant. Mycroft opened the cap before pausing for a moment.

“What?” Greg asked.

“Momentarily overwhelming,” Mycroft murmured.

Greg smiled. “You okay?”

“Quiet,” Mycroft said. “It’s quiet.”

Greg nodded and sat up a bit to stroke his forehead. “Your head is a bloody marvel. The idea that I can switch it off or slow it down a bit…” He shook his head.

“It’s not been so quiet since…” Mycroft trailed off and frowned.

“January, 2007, yeah?” Greg asked.

Mycroft nodded.

“God,” Greg whispered. “Mycroft. Just. Yeah.”

“Yes,” Mycroft murmured, coating his fingers in the lube. Greg spread his legs a little further, shoving a pillow under his hips. Mycroft kissed and nibbled the inside of his thigh as he moved the tip of his index finger in slow circles around Greg’s hole.

Greg sighed and took one deep breath in, exhaling slowly and with it, relaxing his whole body.

Mycroft eased the finger inside him, and gave Greg a minute or two to get used to it. Greg pressed down against his finger and nodded. Mycroft smiled and curled his finger.

Greg gasped and closed his eyes, arching his hips up. Mycroft pressed in a second finger and Greg watched him. Their eyes met and Greg groaned as Mycroft began to slowly move his fingers.

“Just want you,” Greg said. “I’m ready, relaxed, the lot. Please.”

Mycroft glanced up at him, spreading his fingers. Greg let out a low moan. “I haven’t got the patience to be patient,” Greg said. “Not tonight. More nights. There’s always more - oh fuck there - there’s always more nights.”

Mycroft chuckled and slowly withdrew his fingers. He leaned up to kiss Greg and Greg hunted around for the condom. He managed to grab it without having to break the kiss. He tore the wrapper open, and gave Mycroft’s cock two slow strokes before rolling it on.

Greg grinned at him. “Look at you,” he said.

Mycroft smiled and kissed him again, coating his cock in lube. Mycroft positioned himself, and Greg found looking at Mycroft’s face was enough to spread calm through his body. He angled his hips and gasped as the blunt head of Mycroft’s cock penetrated him.

He grimaced a bit, and Mycroft stroked his cock, rubbing his thumb against the head. Greg shuddered, losing himself to the confused pleasure and pain signals.

Mycroft entered him slowly and Greg wrapped his legs around him. They kissed messily, Greg nipping Mycroft’s bottom lip. Greg moved his hips experimentally.

They smiled at each other and kissed again. Mycroft began to move. Greg gasped and wrapped a hand around the back of his head, kissing him desperately. He clawed at Mycroft’s back.

Mycroft changed the angle of his thrusts just slightly and Greg let out garbled curse words as he moved with him, panting into Mycroft’s shoulder.

Mycroft was gasping and sighing close to Greg’s ear. Greg was lost in him. His beautiful, wonderful partner. Mycroft’s hand wrapped around Greg’s cock, and with a few strokes he was coming, closing his eyes and crying out. Mycroft came two thrusts later with a gasp and Greg opened his eyes in time to see the moment cross his face. Stunning.

They shared brief kisses before Mycroft pulled out, cleaning them both off. They lay down beside each other, holding hands and gazing at each other. Greg just nodded at him, no statements or questions necessary. It just was. Mycroft murmured ‘yes’ to all of the unsaid words.

A slow smile spread over Greg’s face. After they each used the bathroom, Mycroft switched off the light.

They kissed slowly for a while in the dark. Mycroft’s body was a reassuring presence in the room. Warm and solid. Mycroft rolled onto his side and Greg spooned up behind him, wrapping one arm over his chest.

He kissed Mycroft’s neck and closed his eyes. Connected to him in ways Greg wasn’t even fully aware of, he drifted off to sleep, his head silent. No words necessary.  


	54. Let Down Your Guard, The Battle's Done

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you my lovely sherl_jawn, as always KingTaran, cltc75, Dravni, Abbennett, psychicdreams, Kaci, Rosie, JustLookFrightenedAndScuttle, CommunionNimrod, WhiskeySally, EdenLost, UnicornSoulHunter, bananas_are_good_9, roosickle, TorchWhoLockian_Potterhead, Jaeh, miss_anthr0pe, mice, ladyxdarcy, Copgirl1964, MisplacedLonelyHeartsAd, beccab, Jill and Gillian.

_January, 2012_

_Through the blackness, Greg heard a shout from somewhere around him. He swivelled, squinting. A flash of light. Moriarty was in front of him, snarling. He had Mycroft, his arms tied behind his back. Moriarty had a knife to Mycroft’s throat. Moriarty began to drag Mycroft back, back into the darkness. Greg’s heart was pounding as he tried to run towards them but his feet were stuck._

“Shh, Greg, I have you.”

_Greg yelled Mycroft’s name, but there was no one around in this everlasting darkness._

“Wake up, Greg. It’s just a nightmare. I’m here. You’re safe.”

_Greg had never felt so alone-_

-The room was dark and he was being held securely-

_-But Moriarty had Mycroft-_

-Warm arms were solid and tight around him. Greg sat up with a start and a gasp. He let out a trembling breath and then Mycroft sat up with him, pulling him in close.

Greg swallowed and held onto Mycroft’s arm. “Sorry,” he murmured, ducking his head.

“Don’t be. Are you alright?”

Greg let out a shaky breath and nodded, releasing Mycroft’s arm from his grip and lying back down. Mycroft lay on his side beside him. “Is there anything I can do?” Mycroft asked.

“No, no, I’m fine.” Mycroft stroked his forehead soothingly. Greg shook his head. “Sorry,” he said again, frowning. “What time is it?”

Mycroft touched his alarm clock, and the digits 3.21am glowed for a few seconds before the room returned to dark once again.

“Sorry,” Greg said again.

“Never apologise for your subconscious,” Mycroft said, kissing his forehead and slipping out of bed to go to the en-suite.

Greg sighed and rolled onto his stomach, trying to clear the images out of his mind. That had been a new nightmare. Somehow, after the day he and Mycroft had spent together yesterday, it was even more raw and painful. Losing Mycroft like that…

Mycroft returned and slipped back under the covers. Greg turned his head, watching the shadow in the dark. Mycroft was sat up, and stroked one hand down Greg’s back in a circular movement. Greg relaxed in an instant.

Mycroft’s hand drifted lower with the next circle, one finger dipping to brush over the crack of Greg’s arse. A slow grin made its way over Greg’s face.

“Yeah,” Greg encouraged, spreading his legs a little. He reached out and touched Mycroft’s naked thigh. “Yeah,” he said again.

“Are you sure?” Mycroft asked.

“Yeah. Are you?”

Mycroft answered the question by stroking a finger down between Greg’s cheeks before straddling his hips and leaning down to kiss the back of Greg’s neck.

Greg sighed, curling one hand in the covers and reaching back with the other to touch Mycroft wherever he could reach.

Mycroft’s hands stroked over his back, pressing into the tense spots near Greg’s shoulders and then down alongside his spine. Greg just sighed, rocking his hips into the mattress. He was still a bit foggy, lost in the knowledge that the silhouette in the dark was Mycroft and they were both safe.

Mycroft’s lips pressed against the side of his neck, his tongue flicking out to lick Greg’s earlobe. Greg chuckled. Had he ever done this? Had sex at 3am, still feeling a trace of horror from the nightmare which had imprinted itself in his head? The perfect antidote. Being close to the man he’d just watched be dragged away by evil personified.

He heard Mycroft reach for the drawer and Greg smiled, rocking his hips again, groaning at the friction against his cock.

Greg reached backwards to stroke Mycroft’s prick, and heard him gasp and felt him shudder.

“Can’t wait,” Greg whispered. “Don’t make me wait.”

He heard the sound of the lid being taken off, the sound of the pump on the bottle of lubricant and then felt two fingers pressing against him. Greg tried to push back against them, urging Mycroft to ease them inside, but Mycroft trapped him down against the bed.

Greg groaned in frustration at the feel of Mycroft’s fingertips rubbing against his hole. Then the tips of both digits pressed inside. Greg bit his lip for a moment. He was still sore from the night before, but the brushing of Mycroft’s lips against his neck relaxed him.

His whole body sinking into the mattress, he let Mycroft press two fingers into him.

“Are you sure?” Mycroft murmured against his ear.

“God, don’t be a daft bastard,” Greg grinned, rocking his hips as much as he could. “If you could see how much I want you, you wouldn’t ask.”

Mycroft’s fingers moved a little. Oh, you bloody marvel. You miracle, you wonderful, ridiculous human being. The smallest touch of Mycroft’s fingers against his prostate had Greg bucking against the sheets, desperate for more, longing for Mycroft and crying out to prove it.

He was so bloody good. Greg wanted to find every single man Mycroft had ever had sex with and clap them on the back first for making it so this man was so unbelievably good in bed, and then brag for hours and hours about how it was Greg now. Only Greg who got to have his long fingers inside him, drawing out his pleasure in this way.

And so drawn out. Too drawn out. “Mycroft, please,” Greg whined. Mycroft just spread his fingers. “Mycroft, c’mon. S’three in the bloody mornin’ if ever y’have to make me wait, it’s not right now.”

Mycroft chuckled and nipped Greg’s earlobe.

“You have the patience of a saint,” Greg muttered, crying out as Mycroft’s finger pressed against his prostate again. “Too patient.”

Finally Mycroft removed his fingers. Greg sighed, already missing the feeling and craving it again. He heard the tearing of a condom packet. Felt Mycroft’s shudder as he rolled it onto his cock and finally, Greg smiled as the head of his cock pressed against him.

Mycroft eased in slowly, giving Greg all the time he could ever need to adjust and get used to the feel of him again. And when Mycroft was finally inside, Greg let out a long breath against the pillow, drowning in the sensations.

Bliss and heaven and yes. Mycroft began to move with lazy strokes, but Greg could hear his trembling breaths, knowing his resolve was slipping too.

But there was no franticness there. Mycroft drew him close to the edge one slow and gentle thrust at a time, until they were sinking along together, not sure whose gasp was whose.

Mycroft pulled out of him slowly, and Greg sat up onto his knees, holding onto the headboard. Mycroft entered him again from behind and they both gasped. Greg turned his head and they kissed messily, and if either of them cared about the other’s morning breath, they didn’t show it.

Mycroft’s hand wrapped around Greg’s cock and stroked him in time with his still oh-too-slow movements until Greg was whimpering and making sounds he would never even let himself believe he made.

The build-up was intense, one tiny tiptoe closer to the edge with every movement, every slight change in tension from Mycroft’s hand. Mycroft’s other hand was on Greg’s chest and Greg held onto it as he gasped and groaned, and finally, and finally the sensations were all too much and he came with gasp, losing himself into the intensity of it all.

He gasped again when he felt Mycroft let go, and their hands entwined on Greg’s stomach for a few brief seconds. Mycroft’s lips brushed against his neck and he pulled away and collapsed on top of the covers.

Greg joined him there, grabbing tissues from the side to wipe his stomach and handing some to Mycroft. They curled up together.

When Greg had nightmares, often he never slept again, even if it were three or four in the morning. Most often, he would get up, because when he closed his eyes he only saw horrors.

This time, settled and relaxed, he drifted off just as Mycroft pulled the covers over them, one of Greg’s arms spread across Mycroft’s chest, and Mycroft’s hands upon his skin.

Greg woke first, shuffling so he could enjoy the heat radiating from Mycroft’s body beside him. He opened his eyes, rubbing them and glancing around. Mycroft was on his side, his eyes closed and Greg smiled at him. He brushed his lips against his temple and got out of bed.

Wrapped in a dressing gown, he had a cigarette outside, shivering as he did so. He boiled the kettle and poured them each a coffee. He found a newspaper on the table beside the front door and frowned. The Daily Star. Greg was sure Mycroft had been reading The Times the day before.

He turned over from the sport pages to the front cover. A woman graced the front cover, dressed only in a bikini, a suggestive pout on her face. _I slept with a murderer_ said the headline. _My kinky romps with Sherlock Holmes._ And there, within the first few paragraphs of text was an inset picture of Sherlock.

Once upon a time, the papers had been forced to take photos of him in that ridiculous hat. The only photos they had managed to get were of the side of his face. But then he got famous. Then he turned up to police press conferences and received awards. Greg knew where this picture was from. The day they’d got Interpol’s most wanted and Greg and Sam and Sally and Anderson had given him that hat.

He knew the story wouldn’t be true before he had even read it. Kinky sex with Sherlock Holmes? Greg wasn’t even convinced he had sex if he was honest.

You can’t defame the dead, that Greg knew. He wished it were possible. He found a copy of The Times underneath, and decided it was best to carry them through since they had both been delivered.

He found Mycroft sat up in bed, checking his phone.

“Morning,” Greg smiled at him, putting the tray down. He held out the papers. “Guess these came for you.”

“Thank you.” Mycroft took them and glanced at the front of The Times. A look of disdain crossed his face when he saw the other.

“Sorry,” Greg muttered, getting back under the covers with him. “I didn’t know if you’d want it but…”

“I have every newspaper with a mention of Sherlock delivered to my door every morning,” Mycroft said. “Disgraceful the things some people will do for money.” Mycroft opened it up. Over two pages, more space was dedicated to pictures of her than there was to words.

_Sherlock Holmes used a whip. He liked to dominate. I never believed he could be a killer._

Greg snorted despite himself.

“Startling, isn’t it?” Mycroft said, folding the paper up and dropping it onto the floor. “What some newspaper proprietors choose to print.” He picked up The Times and smiled a bit. The front page told of negotiations with Russia. “But the spin doctors in my office do wonderful work,” Mycroft said. He leaned over and kissed Greg then. “Don’t worry about the papers.”

“Hard not to,” Greg muttered. “People always believe the stuff they print.”

“Not all of them.” Mycroft flicked through the paper quickly before turning to the crossword. He paused. “When we clear his name, we’ll clear all of this.”

Greg just nodded and picked up his coffee. Mycroft closed the paper and turned it round to the sport pages. Greg laughed. “You don’t need to do that,” he said.

“Why not?” Mycroft asked. “I thought you’d be interested in the transfer news.”

“I am,” Greg said. “Window closes soon.”

“Then by all means.”

Greg laughed and settled back against the pillows, reading the football transfer gossip. He could see Mycroft watching him with a smile out of the corner of his eye. They looked at each other and laughed. Greg had no idea what was amusing them both, but he captured Mycroft’s lips with his and handed him back the paper.

“Go on,” Greg said. “Do your crossword. Let’s see if I can work out more than one this time.”

Greg sat close to him, their shoulders brushing together as Mycroft filled in the boxes with his flowing handwriting. He hardly hesitated. Greg marvelled at it.

After their coffees, they showered together, kissing and relishing the feel of each other’s bodies under the hot water. Greg borrowed some boxers and a shirt. They ate crumpets in the kitchen. Mycroft took out his laptop to check some emails while Greg sat on the opposite end of the sofa reading a book.

By lunchtime, they were ready for the second instalment of The Lord Of The Rings, curled up together with the fire on.

They had Chinese for dinner, ordered from Mycroft’s favourite place. They talked about the film. They discussed the food and the strange piece of vegetable neither of them could quite fathom, which led to Mycroft carrying out a dissection on it and declaring he was never ordering from that place again.

The sight of his face, so perplexed at the odd vegetable, had Greg crying with laughter. They held hands as they drank their wine at the kitchen table, Mycroft explaining the different elements which he thought made perfect Chinese food. Greg said it just needed to contain meat.

Mycroft told him that Greg’s favourite Chinese takeaway had just received a zero hygiene rating. Greg prodded him in the leg with his foot for ruining his culinary favourites.

At 10.14pm, they stood by Mycroft’s door, their arms wrapped around each other as they kissed like they could never bring themselves to stop.

“I’m going,” Greg murmured as Mycroft pulled him into another kiss. “I’ll text.”

“Mm,” Mycroft replied, curling his hand in his shirt and pulling him back into another kiss.

Greg laughed against his lips. “I’ll be back next weekend.”

Mycroft smiled and let him go. “I’ll see you on Friday,” he said. “Would you like to go out at the weekend?”

Greg nodded. “Yeah, sure. You pick a place this time, and I’ll choose next time.” They kissed briefly. “Text me, yeah?”

Mycroft smiled and Greg turned to the door.

“Greg?”

Greg turned to look at him. “Yeah?”

“My door is always open. You don’t need to wait until Friday.”

Greg smiled at that. “Likewise.” He grinned and left. He glanced back and saw Mycroft watching him as he walked down the corridor. Greg smiled at him and left Crusader House.

__

* * *

 

When Greg arrived at work on Monday, he already had an email from Anthea asking for his schedule. Greg sent it and received a spreadsheet just an hour later, which showed the days and weekends when he and Mycroft would have coordinated days off. Greg had a feeling Mycroft and Anthea may have adjusted Mycroft’s schedule, because there was no way Greg was expecting their days off to overlap that much.

Greg also saw the three weeks of black space where Mycroft was due to be abroad.

On Wednesday evening, Sam met him at a pub near the Yard. Unusually, it was just the two of them.

“Everything alright?” Greg asked as Sam brought their beers over.

“Yeah, it’s brilliant,” Sam grinned. “Got loads of gigs coming up, couldn’t be better.”

“Then why the beer?”

“Thought we’d have a catch up. How’s tricks? You look a lot fucking better than the last time I saw you.”

Greg laughed. “Yeah, I feel a bit better too. How’s it going with Sally?”

“Brilliant. Amazing. The best. She hates the song I’ve written about her, but it’ll grow on her.” Sam grinned and Greg laughed, shaking his head.

He frowned when he heard his phone go off and took it out of his jacket pocket to look at it.

 

MESSAGES Mycroft Holmes  
7.45pm: My meetings have finally  
finished. For an hour. And then  
I have a conference call which is  
expected to last an hour. I am  
looking forward to Friday. I just  
wanted to ensure you knew. M.

 

A smile slowly spread over Greg’s face. Sam grinned across at him. “Oh yeah?” Sam asked. “And who’s that making you look like that then?”

Greg laughed and quickly typed ‘miss you too’ before putting his phone away. “It’s nothing.”

“Doesn’t look like nothing. You’re finally smiling and then you get a mysterious text. Who’s the lucky woman making you look like that? Or lucky bloke. Never know with you, Lestrade, could be either.”

Greg laughed and took a sip of his beer. “Bloke.”

Sam grinned. “Who’s the lucky chap? It’s not that guy from the bar who was giving you the eye that night of my gig was it?”

Greg frowned. “What guy?”

“Didn’t you see him? Blond chap, just a bit taller than you. Checking you out all the time? No? Not him?”

Greg shook his head. “Don’t even know who you’re talking about.”

“Hm. So. Lucky fella. C’mon, spill.”

Greg laughed and shook his head. “You keep this between you and me, right? It’s early days. I’m not running around talking about it left, right and centre.”

“But?”

“But it’s good.”

“And who is he?”

Despite himself, Greg felt another smile spread over his face when he said his name. “Mycroft. It’s Mycroft Holmes.”

Sam raised his eyebrows. “Again?”

“Properly this time,” Greg said. “He’s giving me a drawer. A few drawers actually.”

Sam let out a low whistle. “Wow. Cool. Well, he might be all fancy suits and posh cars, but I hope he knows he’s punching above his weight being with you. You’re a top bloke. I’d turn for you.”

Greg laughed. “Shut it.”

“I’m bloody serious, Lestrade. Well, not about turning for you. I love Sal. But you’re a catch, I reckon. I just hope he treats you right.”

Greg smiled. “I think he will.” They returned to talking about football.

 

* * *

 

Later that night Greg found a small package on his doormat. He opened it and found two keys. ‘The long one is for the front door, the small one for the door to the flat’, the note said. ‘All my love’. Greg grinned and he put the note in his wallet.

Work was busy that week. There were two murders to deal with, one a domestic dispute with tragic consequences. The other, a bit more of a mystery.

Greg watched Anderson with interest. He had grown a beard. He was quiet and withdrawn.

“You alright, mate?” Greg asked on Friday, finally finding a moment to pull him aside and into his office.

“Yep. The forensics is being processed as we speak, it should be on your desk by 2pm-”

“-Anderson.” The man frowned at him. “Mate, take a seat.”

Anderson did so with a sigh and Greg got up to make himself a coffee and a tea for Anderson. Greg handed him the mug and sat across from him.

“Heard you weren’t doing so well, mate,” Greg said. “I’m sorry it’s taken me this long to get round to talking to you.”

“It’s fine,” Anderson said. “I never expected you to talk to me, you shouldn’t do now really.”

“You did a nice thing during the hearings into my job,” Greg said. “I really appreciated you defending me and Sherlock.”

“We’ll clear his name,” Anderson said. “If you need any help-”

Greg lifted his hand. “I’ve got it,” Greg said. “It’s been sent to the Attorney General’s office for now. Then goodness knows what else after that. Sherlock’s brother is on the case too.”

Anderson nodded. “Right. Good.” He bit his lip and stared into his tea.

“If you need to talk,” Greg started. “I’m right here.”

“It’s fine,” Anderson said, shaking his head. “Fine and fine.”

“Are you sure?”

Anderson nodded. “Are you unhappy with my work? I know I’m not him, and I can’t ever try to be but-”

“-No, I’m not unhappy with your work. I’m just looking out for you, yeah?”

Anderson nodded and stood up. “Thanks, Lestrade. For the tea and the… I’ll have those forensics on your desk by 2pm.” He got up and left. Greg pressed his lips together and sighed.

Just as he’d started to get his own life together, he was watching those around him continue to unravel. He wasn’t even sure where to begin trying to fix everybody.

 

* * *

 

Greg didn’t get to Crusader House until 9.14pm on the Friday. He text Mycroft not to hold dinner on his account, and he ate a pizza at home while stuffing some boxers and socks and t-shirts into a bag. He had bought a spare toothbrush and deodorant earlier in the week.

He hesitated outside of Mycroft’s door. He hardly knew why he had a key at all when Mycroft’s butler seemed more willing to let him in than ever and Greg would only ever want to be there when Mycroft was there anyway.

He took a long breath and walked through to the living room. Mycroft looked up from his laptop on the sofa and smiled. “Good evening.”

Greg grinned, butterflies suddenly flying around his stomach, and he took a seat on the other side of the room. “How you doing?” Greg asked.

“Good, thank you. And you?”

“Yeah, good. Busy week at work, but it’s not been too bad really. So. Yeah.” He rubbed his hands against his knees.

“Greg, why on earth are you sitting all the way over there?” Mycroft asked.

Greg frowned and glanced down at his hands. “I just. Yeah. Sorry.”

Mycroft gave him a reassuring smile. “Don’t be. We’re navigating this relationship together. But you can always sit beside me. When you wish to.”

“I always want to.” Greg shrugged. “It’s weird. I’ve not seen you in five days and it just feels like I must have dreamed it.”

“You didn’t. It’s real.”

Greg nodded. “Yeah, sorry.” He stood up and walked over to the sofa. Mycroft held out an arm for him and Greg curled up into it, drawing him into a slow kiss.

“Bottle of wine?” Mycroft asked after a few moments.

“Yeah, great.”

“And The Return Of The King?”

“It’s late.”

“Then we’ll sleep in.”

Greg smiled and kissed him. “I’ll get the film, you get the wine.”

They found themselves under a blanket with the film. Often, they found themselves paying more attention to kissing than watching. Mycroft was on top of him, allowing Greg to feel up his entire body.

“Your arse,” Greg muttered. “Is unbelievable.”

Mycroft looked up at him with flushed cheeks and they both laughed, settling against each other to watch the final battles.

They went to bed as soon as the film was done. Greg dropped his bag of clothes onto it. “So. What side of the bed’s yours?” Greg asked.

“Either,” Mycroft replied. “I don’t have a side.”

“I’ll take the right then?” Greg asked.

“Certainly.” Mycroft knelt down beside the bedside cabinet nearest the door. He took out a couple of books, some pens, a box of cigarettes, and some bars of chocolate (”sometimes I forget to eat, and it helps on those late nights,” Mycroft explained). Mycroft put everything on top of his chest of drawers and Greg filled the cabinet with his own clothes, his own cigarettes and lighters and a spare phone charger.

Mycroft had begun to undress and Greg watched him with a grin. He got onto the bed, lounging across it as Mycroft unbuttoned his waistcoat.

“You’re staring,” Mycroft murmured, his back to him.

“It’s because you’re bloody sexy, that’s why. Can’t believe you’re mine, can I?” Greg started to pull his jeans off. He shuffled out of them and dropped them on the floor. “Look at me.”

Mycroft slowly turned and raised his eyebrows.

“You’re gorgeous,” Greg said. “Everything about you.”

“You’re drunk,” Mycroft said with a smile as he unfastened his cuffs.

“Little bit,” Greg grinned. “And you have wine stains on your lips. How about you let me try to lick them off?”

Mycroft rolled his eyes, but he had a playful smile on his face.

“Let me take your shirt off,” Greg said.

Mycroft let out a despairing sigh but smiled as he got onto the bed and shuffled closer to Greg. Greg grinned and began unbuttoning his shirt from the top, kissing each inch of skin it revealed.

Mycroft pulled him up for a kiss. Greg groaned, his lips already tender, but he couldn’t help but crave more as he pushed his tongue into Mycroft’s mouth. Wine and cigarette lingered on his taste buds, and he straddled Mycroft’s lap. They broke the kiss only to pull Greg’s shirt off, sharing groans and sighs.

Mycroft took hold of Greg’s chin between his thumb and index finger, holding him still. A slow smile spread over Greg’s face. “What?” he asked.

Mycroft’s eyes were dark with lust. “Lie down on your back.”

Greg grinned and rolled off him. “Don’t need to tell me twice.” He stretched out along the bed, letting his hand trail down his chest to stroke his hard cock through his underwear.

Mycroft watched him as he slipped his shirt off and slid out of his trousers. He stroked three fingers through the hairs on Greg’s chest before leaning down and kissing him sweetly.

“How do you feel about being tied to the headboard?” Mycroft asked against his mouth.

Greg groaned, chasing his lips for another kiss. “Fine. Yeah, that’s fine.”

“And blindfolds?”

“Also good.”

Mycroft dipped his head to kiss Greg’s throat before reaching into his bedside cabinet. “Lift your arms, Greg.”

Greg swallowed and did so, shuffling down the bed a bit. He pulled the pillow down so it was still underneath his head and he watched Mycroft with a curious expression.

Mycroft took out some black silk ties and Greg grinned. “You’re ridiculous,” he said.

Mycroft smiled. “Is this fine?”

“It’s fine. More than.” Greg took hold of the headboard. “Like this, yeah?”

“That’s perfect.” Mycroft tied his wrists to the headboard and Greg pulled on them to test the knots.

“Had some practice on board a boat?” Greg joked, feeling how secure they were.

“I may have had some practice with knots, yes. Not on board a boat.”

“Where?”

“Tying up prisoners,” Mycroft replied, his eyes sparkling. Greg wasn’t sure if he was kidding or not as he lifted his hips to allow Mycroft to pull down his boxers.

Mycroft dropped his head, flicking his tongue against Greg’s right nipple as he rubbed his fingers lightly against the other. Greg let out a sigh, lifting his hips. But Mycroft sat up enough that Greg was unable to get any friction on his cock.

Greg groaned, loosening and tightening his grip on the headboard. “Oh God. This is because I’ve been impatient with sex, isn’t it? Now you’re going to teach me to do it your way.”

“Problem?” Mycroft asked.

Greg grinned and shook his head. “I bloody love it.”

Mycroft smiled and kissed him, wrapping his hand around Greg’s cock. Greg moaned, rolling his hips and trying to get Mycroft to move his hand. Mycroft did as he was encouraged, stroking the full length and rubbing his thumb against the head with every upward movement.

Greg sucked his bottom lip into his mouth, shuddering as Mycroft began to move his hand more quickly, his other one cupping Greg’s balls.

Greg moaned, surprised Mycroft was going to let him come so soon but then, then he stopped and let go. Greg opened his eyes and frowned.

“Count backwards from… well, let’s say 50, shall we?” Mycroft said.

Greg stared at him. “You want me to count backwards? From 50?”

“I could make it 70.”

Greg laughed, his voice desperate. “Holy. What? Right. Okay, yeah. Um. 50, 49…” He began to count backwards, staring as Mycroft dropped gentle kisses over the top of his chest and around his nipples.

He groaned as he got down to 15, lifting his hips, desperate for Mycroft to do more than drop little kisses over his body. Growling, he counted down from 10. He was rewarded with Mycroft crawling down his body and taking much of his cock into his mouth in one swift motion.

Greg cried out, gripping the headboard. Mycroft wasted no time in bobbing his head, his cheeks hollowed with his eyes fixed on Greg’s as he moved. Greg’s body trembled, staring down at him. Mycroft was so beautiful.

He curled his toes as he got close, and Mycroft’s tongue flicked against the head of his cock and Greg shook and Mycroft lifted his mouth.

“No, no, no, no,” Greg said, panting. “No, not fair. Not fair, not fair.”

“Count down from 40,” Mycroft instructed.

Greg let out a desperate laugh, but he started counting straight away. He was rolling his hips into the air, his eyes begging for Mycroft to touch him. Mycroft slid out of his boxers and Greg allowed his eyes to wander over his body.

“Beautiful,” Greg breathed out between numbers 21 and 20, before he resumed counting again.

Mycroft’s cheeks turned a shade of pink as he kissed over Greg’s neck and throat.

Greg reached zero, and raised his eyebrows. Mycroft’s lips trailed back down his body, brushing teasingly against Greg’s cock. He took hold of one of Greg’s legs, and Greg spread them apart. Mycroft lifted one and flicked his tongue out against Greg’s hole.

Greg shuddered, squeezing his eyes shut in amazement before quickly opening them again. Mycroft’s tongue teased with light flicks and more solid strokes, circling and pressing. Greg was lost. He tried to grasp at the English language, but his voice only let out an incomprehensible range of sounds.

Mycroft’s hand wrapped back around Greg's cock, and he teetered on the edge, feeling the familiar pressure build in his stomach. “Please, please,” he was panting, but Mycroft lifted his mouth and let go of Greg’s cock.

Greg let out a choked groan.

“Count down from 30, Greg,” Mycroft told him.

“Fuck, I can’t,” Greg gasped. “I can’t, I… 30, 29…”

He watched as Mycroft opened his drawer and took out the lubricant, slicking his fingers.

Greg’s whole body felt on edge as he trembled and counted. Mycroft positioned himself back between his legs and as he counted down to zero, one of Mycroft’s fingers pressed against him.

Greg tried to push his body down towards the digit, and he was so relaxed, the finger slid in easily. Mycroft’s finger curled, pressing straight against Greg’s prostate. A second long finger was pushed in alongside it, and Greg writhed on the bed as those two fingers moved inside him, preparing him.

It didn’t take long until he was close to coming again, only to have Mycroft stop, and predictably say: “Count down from 20.”

Greg’s voice shook as he began the countdown. Mycroft was rolling a condom on and lubing his cock. Greg was so sure he’d never been so desperate for anything in his whole life.

Mycroft’s cock was pressing against his hole before Greg had even reached five, and it was all the proof he needed that Mycroft was as desperate as he was.

The second Greg reached zero, Mycroft was sliding into him in one quick movement, and Greg cried out, arching his body up and accepting him into his body. They both breathed hard for a few moments, before Mycroft began to move, angling himself perfectly to hit Greg’s prostate with every thrust.

Lost in desire, Greg could make no heads of tails or anything he was saying or groaning, as Mycroft took him. Greg clung to the headboard, moving with him.

Mycroft, panting too now, suddenly stilled inside him. “Count down from 10,” he said, but his voice was shaking.

“Oh God, oh fuck, how can you stand it?” Greg was asking him. “How can you-10. 10 and nine, eight… Bloody hell, Mycroft. Mycroft. Six. I mean seven, six, five, four. Fuck. Three, two, one, zero, please, please, please…”

Mycroft began to move again, leaning down to kiss Greg messily as he pounded into him, and Greg wasn’t sure where he began and Mycroft ended anymore as they moved as one single being.

Hot pleasure built up in Greg’s stomach and he curled his toes, wrapping one leg tightly around Mycroft. There was nothing touching his cock, but the unrelenting pressure against his prostate was almost too much and unbelievably, against all of Greg’s senses and knowledge of sex, he came without Mycroft touching him at all.

He cried out, spilling over his stomach, hardly aware himself of how loud he was being, and Mycroft stilled and gasped and came too.

Greg pinched his eyes closed, his whole body shaking. Mycroft, ever the considerate lover, reached up and with trembling hands, and managed to undo the silk ties with minimal fuss. He lowered himself onto Greg, and Greg held him close, trying hard to catch his breath.

“Mycroft,” was the only word Greg could manage. “That was.”

“I know.”

“I didn’t. Oh Christ, holy, everything, what the hell do you do to me you mad, ridiculous, perfect fucking bastard.”

Mycroft laughed, burying his face in Greg’s neck. Their bodies were slick with sweat, but they clung to each other even so.

“Mad bloody bastard,” Greg repeated, pressing kisses to Mycroft’s hair. “My mad, wonderful man.”

Mycroft lifted his head to kiss him and he gently pulled out, collapsing onto his back beside Greg. They looked at each other and began to laugh.

Greg wiped his face with the back of his hand. He shook his head, laughing in disbelief. After a few moments, Mycroft rolled over and handed him some tissues.

Greg smiled gratefully and cleaned himself off.

It was with some reluctance that Mycroft eventually got up to use the en-suite, and Greg pulled himself out of bed, using the bathroom on the other side of the flat.

When he got back, Mycroft was already under the covers, and Greg joined him there, turning the light off. They nestled close to each other, shoulders brushing together. They shared one chaste kiss.

“Night,” Greg whispered.

“Goodnight, Greg.”

Greg sighed, a big smile across his face. He was just beginning to drift off when through the darkness, Mycroft suddenly spoke. “Greg?”

“Mmm?” Greg replied through a yawn.

“I think I do have a side of the bed after all.”

“You want to swap, don’t you?” Greg asked, grinning.

“Would you mind?”

Greg laughed. “Course not.” They shuffled around, exchanging kisses as they did so. They settled into a peaceful sleep.

In the morning, Greg and Mycroft swapped over the contents of each bedside cabinet. They put lubricant and condoms in each drawer, just for ease of access.

It was absurd, in Greg’s mind at least, how easily they settled around each other on the weekend. Reading the paper, eating breakfast, relaxing easily into a pattern of reading and talking about work.

In the evening, Mycroft’s driver took them to Greg’s home so he could change into something a bit more formal. Mycroft sat on his sofa while Greg rummaged through his wardrobe, trying to find something appropriate.

Mycroft looked incredible. Of course he did. He never looked anything less than impeccable in a black suit with a red tie and not a hair out of place.

Greg only had old shirts and scuffed shoes and trousers he’d worn to work a few times, but thought they would probably be acceptable.

He shrugged at Mycroft. “Will this do?” he asked.

“You look wonderful as ever,” Mycroft replied, standing up and kissing him. “We have to put in a brief appearance at a party first. I imagine we will be able to leave after 14 minutes precisely.”

“A party?”

“A charity event put on by a politician,” Mycroft informed him as they walked down the stairs and out of the building. “He is a rising name in politics, and someone I hope to involve in several projects. He’s very, shall we say, bendable.”

Greg snorted. “Bendable?”

“A poor choice of words, perhaps. He’s easily moulded.”

“Meaning you can make him do whatever you want.”

“Yes,” Mycroft confirmed as they got into the car.

Greg felt under-dressed the second they arrived. He should have worn a tie, he thought. But Anthea approached him with her husband - Arnou, was it? - and he wasn’t wearing a tie either. Anthea was the epitome of elegance, long fingers wrapped around a glass of champagne.

She kissed her boss on each cheek, before doing the same to Greg. “Wonderful to see you,” she said with a smile. “Congratulations to you both.”

“Congratulations?” Arnou asked her.

“I’m sure Mr Holmes wouldn’t mind me saying it has been a long journey to this point,” Anthea said, delight evident in her eyes.

“Anthea,” Mycroft warned softly, but he too was smiling as he brushed the backs of his fingers against Greg’s hand.

Arnou looked between them and suddenly he seemed to understand. He grinned. “Ah, but of course. Yes. Finally.”

Greg snorted and accepted two glasses of champagne from a waiter who walked by. He handed one to Mycroft.

“Fourteen minutes, yeah?” Greg asked.

“Are you not staying?” Anthea asked. “I was going to do my party trick.”

“What’s your party trick?” Greg asked, as Mycroft gently touched his elbow and said he would be back in a moment, and walked away to talk to someone.

“It’s my ultimate who’s sleeping with who game,” Anthea said. “These parties are filled with infidelity. Mr Holmes has the knack of knowing whether I’m right or not. And then I put our new-found knowledge to good use in the future.”

Greg laughed. “You two are bloody dangerous together.”

She smiled. “It’s very good to see you. It’s nice to see him smiling.”

Greg nodded. “It’s been tough, I know.”

“For all of you,” she said.

Mycroft returned to Greg’s side and Greg glanced at him. “Alright?”

“We can leave once you have finished your drink,” Mycroft told him.

“Did they sign off on the forms?” Anthea asked.

Mycroft shook his head. “That’s for Monday,” he said. “We’ll have to take it to India with us.”

“We can’t,” Anthea said, frowning. “It’s all arranged.”

“We don’t even know if this trip will amount to anything,” Mycroft said. “The very least we can do is ensure the forms are signed in India.”

“Then we’ll have to extend the trip.”

“That isn’t an option,” Mycroft said firmly.

“If you insist on cutting down the number of times you’re travelling abroad in a year, you may have to concede to longer trips.”

Greg bit his lip, staring into his glass.

“It’s simply not an option,” Mycroft said. “We’re expected in New Delhi. We can’t miss it. You know the consequences of that.”

Anthea sighed. “Okay. Fine. We will do it your way.”

“Get Stewart Trease working on them first thing on Monday,” Mycroft said, finishing off his champagne. “But we will be at New Delhi whatever the result of those forms. We have priorities, Anthea. Promises I cannot and will not break.”

Greg glanced at Anthea, who had her lips pressed together. Arnou was fiddling with his watch.

“Very well, Mr Holmes,” she said, leaning forward to kiss him on each cheek again. “Enjoy the rest of your evening.” She smiled and kissed Greg’s cheek again. “I hope to see you again soon.”

Greg downed the rest of his champagne and followed Mycroft out of the room. “What’s going on?” Greg asked as they settled back into the car.

“International surveillance agreements I want signed and on my desk by the end of February, but I suspect it will not be until March now at the very earliest. They keep stalling.”

Greg nodded and rubbed his thigh. “Sorry.”

“No, I am. I didn’t mean to ruin our evening with work.”

“You’re not,” Greg said. “You can talk about whatever you want.”

Mycroft nodded and rested his head against Greg’s shoulder.

“What did Anthea mean?” Greg asked after several minutes. “Less trips?”

“I’m reducing the number of trips aboard I take a year. I have been reducing it steadily for the past 12 months, but I’m aiming to reduce it even more, now I have a reason to be at home.”

Greg glanced at him. A reason to be at home?

“Yes, I do mean you,” Mycroft said. “I can conduct many meetings via conference calls, aside from a few very specific matters which require my full attention and, occasionally, my presence.”

“Like India?”

“Yes. It should only be a three-week trip. It may take longer,” Mycroft conceded.

Greg kissed the side of his head. “You don’t need to give up anything for me, you know that.”

“I should have done it years ago,” Mycroft said. “Sometimes it just requires an extra incentive to make a person see sense.”

They smiled at each other and kissed until they reached the restaurant. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this chapter was lots of porn. Lots of overdue porn. I offer no apologies. I just really needed to write Mystrade sex. And I realised I needed to work out how to add four more chapters to round it up to 70 (I have an obsession with multiples of 10), so porn was the result while shuffling things about. Again. No apologies. :P


	55. You Watched Me Fail Night After Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am SO sorry it has been a week. But life and work and various things have conspired. But this chapter is 12,000 words. Hope that helps! And I wanted to do this chapter right too.  
> Thank you to cltc75, beccab, Jaeh, Dravni, psychicdreams, MoonRiver, Jalizar, vanya, JustLookFrightenedAndScuttle, roosickle, KingTaran, Gaffsie, CommunionNimrod, WhiskeySally, Velma, Mice, UnicornSoulHunter, miss_anthr0pe, ladyxdarcy, chironsgirl, Emmalee3400, GoldenKhaleesi, undun (for all the comments!), Jill, sherl_jawn, AzarathMetrionZinthos and Noctivaga :-)

_February, 2012_

“Why are you in such a good mood?”

Greg turned around from where he was writing some names of victims and cases onto a whiteboard. He looked at Sally. “What?”

“You. You’re whistling.”

Greg stared at her. “I’m whistling?”

“Yeah. A lot.”

Greg shrugged and turned back to the names he was writing.

“So?” Sally pressed. “Why are you in such a good mood?”

“Can’t I just be in a good mood? And anyway. Thought you weren’t interested in talking about our personal lives.”

“I’m not,” Sally said. “Just wondered why the whistling.”

Greg grinned and put the cap back on the pen. He began to walk back to his office, whistling on purpose this time. He heard Sally’s snort behind him and Greg smiled to himself.

He had been feeling considerably lighter the past few weeks. More refreshed and excited to get up in the morning. Then of course, he was reminded by the stack of papers on his desk…

Time was, with a few of those cases, he would have given Sherlock a call by now. If Sherlock hadn’t already come by himself, that was. Greg opened the second drawer of his desk and frowned at the box inside it. It was all of Sherlock’s stuff, but he couldn’t bring himself to get rid of it. He wasn’t sure what exactly he was hanging onto though.

As though he was waiting, just in the hope one day he might barge in and demand a case and his stuff back.

Greg knew he never would. 

 

* * *

 

That evening, Greg went to Mycroft’s. Mycroft was due to fly to India the following afternoon, and it was with some reluctance that Greg acknowledged it would be their last night together for a while.

He was let in at 8.21pm, to the smell of chicken wafting from the kitchen. He followed the smell, finding his partner carving. Mycroft turned and smiled at him.

“Hey,” Greg said, striding towards him and stealing a quick kiss. “Smells amazing.”

“I tried my best,” Mycroft told him. “Or rather, I followed Anthea’s instructions to the letter.”

“Well, it smells great,” Greg said, kissing the side of his neck before finding himself a wine glass and pouring himself some. He sat down at the table, admiring Mycroft as he moved around the kitchen dishing up their food. “How was work?”

“Good, actually,” Mycroft said, carrying their plates over and taking a seat. “We apprehended a group of terrorists and I made a politician beg for forgiveness.”

Greg laughed. “Sounds… eventful.”

“You spent a lot of time doing paperwork,” Mycroft remarked.

“Yeah. Too much. It wasn’t too bad though. Mostly preparing stuff for court, and I always like that bit because it means we’ve got the bugger.” He took a bite of his chicken and groaned. “And now I’ve come here for this food. My day has just got better and better.”

“Did you solve the McGiven case?”

“No. Would have been the sort I would have given to Sherlock normally, it’s all a bit weird. But obviously not anymore so... No, we’ve not got it yet, but we will. I’m trying to think a bit more like him. See or observe, or whatever it is I’m supposed to do.”

“Observe,” Mycroft said.

“Yeah. We’re trying. It’ll be tough to take when our numbers finally come through during the annual review and we see how worse off we are without Sherlock. Not that he’s just numbers to me. He was always more than that.”

“I know.”

“I re-read John’s blog today,” Greg admitted. “Just to remember him a bit, but it’s hard to put your finger on someone who’s not there. Even when you remember them, it’s not the same as if they actually existed.”

“Perhaps not. I haven’t given it much thought.”

“Take my word for it then.”

“You miss him.”

Greg nodded. “Course I do. I just don’t want to live like he never existed. It bugs me at work when they just get on with it and don’t even reference it. And I know why.”

“You can talk about Sherlock whenever you want with me.”

Greg smiled. “Cheers. How are you holding up? Really? Don’t feel like I ever properly asked.”

“I’m fine, but thank you.”

Greg nodded and had a few more bites of his food in silence. “I never visited his grave. Do you?”

“No.”

“Sorry, should I shut up?”

“No, Greg.”

Greg smiled across at him. “You’re an amazing cook.”

“Anthea writes splendid recipes for me. Though I suspect they’re often Arnou’s rather than hers.”

“How did they meet?” Greg asked. “Do you know much about that?”

“Very little. They married five years ago. Anthea missed the ceremony because she was working.”

Greg snorted. “You’re kidding?”

“I’m not. I tried to convince her to go to the ceremony, but, well, I have never met someone so dedicated. Arnou proved what kind of man he was when he brought the wedding to the office instead. We quickly put the legal measures in place, and they were married in my office in Whitehall. And not even the large office I have now. It was barely the size of the en-suite bathroom.”

Greg laughed. “That all sounds romantic.”

“Does it?” Mycroft smiled a bit. “It was rather touching, I suppose.”

“But they’re still together.”

“They understand each other, I think.”

Greg nodded. “He seems a good bloke.” He put his knife and fork down and sat back in his chair. “I’m done. That was brilliant. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Mycroft topped up their wine glasses.

“Are you packed?”

“Yes, completely.”

“What time’s your flight?” Greg asked.

“Around 3.30pm, I think.”

Greg smiled at him and brushed his fingers against Mycroft’s knuckles. “I hope you have a successful time.”

“Success is all relative. But thank you.”

Greg pulled his chair around to the other side of the table so they could sit closer together. Mycroft gazed at him.

“We could be really naughty,” Greg said. “Have dessert in bed.”

Mycroft laughed. “A bit presumptuous to think we have dessert.”

“Don’t we?”

Mycroft smiled and gave Greg a quick kiss. “We do.” He stood up and walked to the fridge. “This is from someone at work. Apple pie, and I believe there is some ice cream in the freezer.”

“Perfect.”

Mycroft warmed up the pies and they carried their bowls through to the bedroom.

“I must say, this is something I haven’t done since I was a child,” Mycroft said.

Greg laughed. “What, eat food in bed?”

“Yes. And even then it was only when I was working illicitly under the covers, pretending not to be awake.”

Greg laughed as he toed off his shoes and got onto the bed. He propped some pillows up against the headboard. “Working?”

“Reading. And taking notes.” Mycroft took off his jacket and waistcoat and took a seat down beside Greg.

“What did you like to read?” Greg asked.

“Apart from Gothic horror novels? Anything. I commandeered everything that appeared on my parents’ shelves. Admittedly, that meant a lot of mathematics. But also science, history, logic. I’d pick up anything.”

Greg grinned and had a bite of his pudding, burning his mouth instantly. Mycroft laughed and Greg just shook his head. “One day I’ll learn,” he said.

“If you haven’t learnt by now, I suspect you never will.” Mycroft kissed him.

“Ice cream though,” Greg said. “So I can cool it off.”

Mycroft went to talk and then stopped.

“What?” Greg asked him.

“I was about to ask about your childhood, but I thought perhaps you’d rather not talk about it.”

“No, it’s alright.”

“Were you able to do much reading?”

“Not really,” Greg said. “I guess I could have done, if I wanted. But when I got to a certain age, it wasn’t the done thing to read or be smart. You had to be street smart to survive. I only really got into reading as an adult.”

Mycroft nodded. “What sort of street smart?”

“You just had to protect your stuff. Sometimes foster parents would give you things, and nice things sometimes too if they were well-off. But you had to watch your back, ‘cause kids would always want to nick them. I was quite a small kid for ages, but shot up when I hit about 10. So for the last two years I was at the home, I was sort of the top dog.”

Mycroft smiled. “Were you in charge of a dictatorship of children?”

Greg burst out laughing. “Yeah, like Lord Of The Flies.” Greg grinned and had a spoonful of his dessert. “Not really. I like to think I helped out the kids who needed it but mostly I was looking out for myself.”

“I imagine you were caring even then.”

Greg glanced at him and smiled. “I tried, that’s all I can say. Yeah, if a kid was being picked on, I’d try and sort it out. Not always in the most diplomatic way…”

“You fought?”

“Quite a bit,” Greg admitted. “Prone to violence with a temper, I think it said on my forms. I guess that’s part of the reason I didn’t get fostered that much. But, honestly, I was only prone to violence when I thought someone needed…” he trailed off.

“Needed protecting,” Mycroft finished for him.

Greg sighed. “Yeah. Stupid.”

“Not at all.”

“Still got a temper,” Greg said. “I’ve managed to reel the violence in a bit. Kind of have to as a policeman.”

“It’s a wonder you ever kept your cool with Sherlock.”

Greg smiled wistfully. “Might have lost it a few times. That night he took those drugs and had you pinned to the wall… I pushed him a bit harder than really necessary.”

“I recall.”

“He probably hardly felt it, he was so dosed up. I learnt to reel it in. I think I got into one big fight at uni involving fists, and even then it was only because this bloke got a bit handsy with a female mate of mine.”

“You’re a very good man.”

Greg smiled a bit. “Cheers.”

“I know you don’t believe me.”

Greg shrugged. “I believe it sometimes. Then I think about Sherlock and I don’t anymore. I tried to be good, I failed. Twelve hours of idiocy… I doubted him for 12 hours, and that was all it took.”

“That’s not true.”

“It feels true. That’s what matters. I’d known him for years, never doubted him once.”

“That was the genius of Moriarty,” Mycroft said. “He knew what hurt us the most. Though I think he always underestimated my affections for Sherlock.”

Greg nodded. “Can believe that. Probably thought you were a cold bastard. Not that you’re anything close to it with me. Always liked that. Felt like you were a different person with me. Could hardly believe anyone thought you were cold.”

“Moriarty misjudged us all. And we all seriously misjudged him.”

Greg glanced at him and rubbed his arm. “It’s not your fault either.”

“One day we will all believe that, I’m sure. John blames me as much as he does you.”

Greg sighed and rubbed his face. “Sometimes I want to call him. But I just don’t think I have a right. He should blame me. I can’t even imagine what he’s going through.”

Mycroft took both their bowls and put them on the side. He slid his hands onto Greg’s shoulders. He hesitated for a moment before drawing their mouths together, and Greg relaxed into the kiss, losing himself in it.

Greg pressed his fingers either side of Mycroft’s jaw, holding him close, even as their lips merely brushed together.

“You always make me feel better,” Greg said with a smile.

“Well, if a kiss is all it takes…” Mycroft teased, kissing Greg’s cheek.

Greg grinned. “There’s a few other things which help too…”

Mycroft smirked. “Is that so?”

Greg grinned, moving his fingers to undo the top button of Mycroft’s shirt. “A few things,” he said, leaning forward to kiss the skin he uncovered. He unfastened two more, kissing there too. “In fact, you don’t need to do anything.”

“No?”

“Nope. I want to kiss you everywhere.” Greg kissed his neck. “I’m going to drive you absolutely crazy. And then I’m going to make you come using my mouth.”

Mycroft smiled. “I see. Is that a promise?”

Greg grinned, unbuttoning the rest of Mycroft’s shirt. “It’s a promise. And a guarantee. Practically a binding contract.”

Mycroft slid the shirt off his shoulders, folding it and putting it down on the floor beside the bed. Greg smiled as he looked at him, trailing his fingertips through the fine hair on Mycroft’s chest, purposely avoiding his nipples.

Greg leaned forward, kissing along his collar bone and then dipping his tongue into the hollow of his throat. “Lie down for me,” he said, pulling back to take his own shirt off.

Mycroft smiled and shuffled down onto the bed, putting a second pillow under his head so he could watch everything Greg was doing.

Greg straddled Mycroft’s hips, licking his bottom lip as he gazed at his partner’s body beneath him. He flicked his eyes upwards to Mycroft’s face. His lips were parted, watching Greg intently. Greg lowered his head down to his stomach. He kissed down the trail of hair starting at Mycroft’s belly button, down to where his trousers began.

And then he moved upwards, kissing up one side, rubbing his nose along the skin as he went. Mycroft began to laugh and Greg grinned. “Forgot you were ticklish here,” he said, taking a mental note of that exact spot. He kissed up to Mycroft’s shoulder, and then began his descent down his arm.

He kissed the thin skin on the underside of Mycroft’s elbow.

“You know,” Greg started, “there’s a trick with this. Close your eyes.” Mycroft hesitated for a moment before doing so. “I want you to tell me when I touch the inside of your elbow,” Greg instructed him.

Greg held Mycroft’s wrist, touching one index finger to the soft skin there. Mycroft shivered, and Greg began zig-zagging his finger up the underside of Mycroft’s arm.

He traced the path of one or two veins, and felt the tendons. Mycroft laughed a little when Greg reached a sensitive bit and Greg continued the slow movement of his finger.

“Just there,” Mycroft said.

Greg stilled his finger. “Have a look.”

Mycroft opened his eyes and frowned when he saw where Greg’s finger had stopped, half way between his wrist and elbow.

“I was certain that was my elbow,” Mycroft said, staring at it.

Greg grinned and kissed Mycroft’s elbow. “Not sure why that works, but it’s a cool trick.” He kissed down Mycroft’s arm and reached his wrist. “How many pulse points are there?” he asked.

Mycroft took hold of Greg’s hand and touched Greg’s fingers to the side of his head. “Temporal artery here.” Mycroft moved them to his jaw. “Facial artery. And then down…” He slid Greg’s finger to the side of his neck. “Carotid.”

Greg touched the inside of Mycroft’s elbow. “There’s one here, right?”

“Brachial,” Mycroft confirmed. “And then lower, for the radial.”

“Here,” Greg said, lifting Mycroft’s hand and kissing the inside of his wrist.

“Yes.” Mycroft smiled and unfastened his belt, sliding it out and dropping it onto the floor. He undid his trousers and slid them off. He held Greg’s hand again, pressing one of Greg’s fingers to his groin. “Femoral artery. Behind the knee is the popliteal, then the side of the ankle is the posterior tibial artery. And on the top of the foot is where you will find the dorsalis pedis artery.”

“There’s ones on your feet?”

“Wherever an artery is compressed against a bone.”

Greg smiled. “Your body’s amazing.”

“I assure you, yours is exactly the same.”

Greg laughed. “I didn’t mean it like that, and you know it.”

Mycroft smiled. “Your resting heart rate is 74.”

Greg laughed. “How the hell do you know that?”

“Because I took your pulse on several occasions.”

Greg grinned and kissed him. “That should be creepy, but I can’t help but think that’s amazing. What’s yours?”

“71.”

“What’s your heart rate right now?” Greg asked, stroking his hand down the centre of Mycroft’s chest to the top of his boxers. He saw Mycroft’s cock twitch under the fabric.

Mycroft smiled. “Slightly elevated, I would imagine.”

Greg grinned and kissed Mycroft’s hips and then along the waistband of his boxers.

He lay down by Mycroft’s side, exploring his body with kisses. Mycroft had one hand resting lightly on his head, fingers stroking through his hair. It was unbelievably relaxing. Greg was going to map every inch of his body. Touch every single millimetre.

“Roll over,” Greg murmured.

“If you insist,” Mycroft said, rolling onto his front.

Greg grinned, leaning up and nuzzling the back of his neck. He kissed along his hairline. Nipped his ear lobe. He kissed down the back of his neck and then slowly began his descent down his spine. He sat up, just a bit, catching sight of one of many white scars along Mycroft’s back.

It was the like the world stopped in an instant. His heart was racing. He couldn’t grasp onto what was happening, but he felt as though he’d just been encased in some ice, he couldn’t move, could only force his breathing and even that was difficult. He gasped and squeezed his eyes shut. His chest felt so tight…

“Greg,” Mycroft murmured from beneath him. And then he said it again, more firmly. Greg couldn’t move.

Mycroft must have had a better understanding of what was happening than Greg did, because Mycroft turned back onto his back and pushed Greg up to a sitting position with him. He grabbed the throw off the bed and wrapped it over Greg’s shoulders.

He rubbed Greg’s shoulders, one hand protective on the back of his neck.

“Greg, I’m fine,” he was saying. “You’re having a panic attack, but I just need you to breathe for me, that’s the way.”

“I don’t-” Greg tried to say.

“Shh, now, shh. Just breathe.”

Greg took a deep breath and felt his shoulders shake. Mycroft placed one of Greg’s hands over his pectoral muscles.

“It’s alright,” Mycroft was saying. “I have you, I have you. Just in and out. In and out, let’s get some air into your lungs, yes?”

Greg nodded, absorbing Mycroft’s words, listening to Mycroft’s breath and joining in with the slow rhythm.

“That’s perfect,” Mycroft murmured, his hand rubbing in slow circles on his back. “Perfect. I have you. I’ve got you.”

“God,” Greg breathed out. “I don’t… That’s never…”

“I know, I know.”

“Seen ‘em before. Loads of times. Seen ‘em…”

“I know,” Mycroft repeated. “It’s fine, don’t worry. I have you, Greg. And I promise, I will be back for you.”

Greg swallowed. They were words he hadn’t even realised he needed to hear. As his breathing returned to normal, Mycroft pulled him close, kissing his hair.

Greg shook his head. “That’s never happened. I don’t know what…”

“It’s alright,” Mycroft said, but he looked concerned.

“I’m not… I’m not worried about you going away or anything. I don’t get it. I mean, I worry, but normal healthy worry, not crazy, can’t breathe worry.”

“Shh,” Mycroft said softly, kissing his cheek. “I’m sure it’s a one-off.”

“I don’t understand.” He turned to look at Mycroft. “What aren’t you saying?”

“Nothing at all,” Mycroft said.

“You don’t seem all that surprised.”

Mycroft raised his eyebrows.

Greg rubbed his face. “Shit. Sorry.”

Mycroft stroked his hand. “You have had a stressful year. You’re still working far more hours than you should be and sleeping far less than is healthy. You need to take some time off.”

“I’m not stressed,” Greg said. “Not anymore. I’ve been more chilled out than ever.”

“You need to take some time off,” Mycroft repeated.

“Can’t,” Greg said. “We’re still under-staffed, and full of youngsters. I can’t do it. And anyway, I need to be in the office for this McGiven case. I’m not dumping Sally in on it.”

Mycroft sighed. “Then will you please consider trying to take some time for yourself while I’m away? Perhaps go to a football game or do something you enjoy. I worry about you.”

Greg glanced at him. He couldn’t promise it. “Gonna miss you,” he said instead.

Mycroft nodded and lay down, holding his arms out so Greg could join him. “I know. I will miss you too.”

Greg sighed, relaxing into Mycroft’s embrace. “Y’sure that was a panic attack?”

“I can’t claim to be a medical expert,” Mycroft said.

Greg nodded. “Sorry.”

“No apologies.”

Greg nodded and curled up with him. Eventually, they turned the television on and watched Twelve Angry Men together before falling asleep.

They made the goodbyes in the morning as quick and stress-free as possible, almost as though Greg would be returning later that day. He got into work, and re-opened the McGiven case files.

The nightmares started the night after Mycroft went. Recurring images of that child in the red t-shirt, bleeding, battered and screaming while Greg was helpless, unable to intervene. Sometimes he was in manacles on a wall. Other times, Moriarty was holding him back. Sometimes he was in a glass box, tied and struggling. Always, always the child.

Sometimes, rarely, he saw Sherlock. Sometimes it was fleeting, other times he was there, dead or about to jump from the top of Bart’s. Once, Greg watched him kill the child in the red t-shirt, and that was the worst, because it played on those doubts again.

With no one occupying the space beside him on the bed, Greg felt like the waking hours between 4am and 6am were some of those most difficult. He couldn’t go back to sleep, so he sat in the dark in his living room under a blanket, reading the news on his phone.

After nine days, the nightmares stopped, but only because Greg was so exhausted that he fell asleep on the sofa at 8.46pm and slept right through until morning.

He tried playing football and running to try and kick his body into gear. He felt physically healthier than he had done for months, but he felt like his mind was punishing him just for being alive.

So he did the very thing Mycroft told him not to. He worked. He worked long hours, and took paperwork home. He avoided sleep, because he was fearful of what he might see.

And when he wasn’t as alert on the job as he should have been, he said he had been having trouble sleeping, but not that he was to blame for that. And when people asked how he spent the weekend, he lied and said he had watched the football. Which was true, but he always had a beer and paperwork in front of him at the same time.

 

* * *

 

_March, 2012_

He heard the scream and it was only when he opened his eyes that he realised it was him. He breathed hard, gripping tightly to the duvet. He felt the bile reach his throat and he jumped out of bed, stumbling to the bathroom. He shivered, seeing his breath in the room as he threw up.

He wiped the back of his mouth with his hand. He took a shaky breath, catching the dark silhouette of his reflection in the mirror. A noise then. Like the opening of his front door. Definitely footsteps. Greg froze. The door closed, softly, but enough that Greg heard it.

He grabbed the closest thing he could find - a mirror - and crept into the hallway. His heart pounded in his chest. There was a shadow of a man, stood near the door.

“Greg?” he heard. He frowned. Paused. “What are you doing up?” the voice asked.

Greg squinted through the dark. A man. Holding an umbrella. And his voice…

“Greg?” the man repeated.

Greg walked towards him, burying his face in his shoulder. “What are you doing here?” he asked, wrapping his arms around Mycroft’s body and breathing him in. The presence of him was instantly stabilising.

“I just returned from my trip,” Mycroft said as he brushed his lips against Greg’s hair. “I couldn’t resist coming to see you. There now, what’s wrong?”

Mycroft pulled back to look at him. Greg shivered and shook his head. “Don’t kiss me,” Greg said. “Just let me go brush my teeth.”

He shuffled back into the bathroom, turning the light on. He let his eyes adjust, and flushed the toilet. He made quick work of brushing his teeth, leaning down to drink some water from the tap.

When he walked out, Mycroft was already in the bedroom, just using his phone to light up the room. He had undressed to his underwear and was just getting under the covers. “How was your trip?” Greg asked.

“Tiring,” Mycroft said. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Greg said, getting into bed beside him. “Thanks for coming.”

Mycroft kissed him lightly. Greg smiled and kissed him again, as Mycroft rolled over onto his back. Greg kissed his neck. “Glad you’re back,” he said.

“As am I.”

Greg stretched out at Mycroft’s side, pressing light kisses to his cheek. He rested his head on Mycroft’s chest, listening to his heart. Mycroft’s fingers brushed through his hair.

With the reassuring presence of Mycroft beside him, Greg quickly fell back to sleep.

_Mycroft’s body, Sherlock’s body and the child in the red t-shirt lay on the floor in front of Moriarty. He wore a sadistic grin. Greg could only stare._

Greg woke with a jolt. Dazed, he felt a hand rubbing slowly against his back. Mycroft.

“It’s okay,” the man murmured tiredly. “You’re safe.”

Greg just nodded, lying back down. Mycroft shuffled closer, extending one arm over Greg’s chest. Greg lay there, staring up at the ceiling he couldn’t see, unsure he wanted to get back to sleep.

“Greg. Get some sleep. You have work in the morning.” Greg nodded in response. Mycroft’s hand found his. “You’re perfectly safe.”

“I know.”

“What can I do?”

“Nothing,” Greg sighed. He stroked Mycroft’s fingers. “Just glad you’re here.”

Greg didn’t think he’d ever sleep, but later that morning, his alarm went off, and he smiled when he saw Mycroft there, his eyes still closed. Greg leaned forward to kiss his forehead.

“Mornin’,” Greg mumbled, his voice still heavy with sleep. A slow smile spread over Mycroft’s face, though he didn’t open his eyes. “Thank you for comin’.” Greg sighed. “I have to get up for work. Stay here if you like?”

Mycroft opened his eyes, yawning. “Thank you. Why don’t you come to mine this evening?”

Greg nodded and kissed him lightly. “I’d love to.”

He started to get out of bed but Mycroft grasped his hand. Greg turned to face him.

“I’ve missed you,” Mycroft said, smiling at him.

Greg grinned and shuffled back over, pressing a closed-mouth kiss to Mycroft’s lips. “Missed you too.”

He showered and got dressed, leaving Mycroft in bed as he went to work. He was on the edge of his seat as he watched the time run by. He went to Crusader House as soon as he could.

He found Mycroft in his seat beside the fire and Mycroft immediately stood up, striding to Greg and kissing him hard. Greg groaned, pulling him close, and walking them towards the wall, and pushing Mycroft up against it.

He fought with Mycroft’s navy-coloured tie, tightening it rather than undoing it, and made quick work of his waistcoat buttons as Mycroft nipped and licked his lips. Greg ground their hips together, pushing Mycroft’s waistcoat off and letting it drop to the floor. Mycroft’s nimble fingers unfastened Greg’s shirt, pulling it off and pinching a nipple.

Greg gasped and started to undo Mycroft’s shirt. Mycroft’s hands worked from the bottom buttons up while Greg went from the top down until their hands met half-way and they kissed again, Mycroft’s hands tangling in his hair.

Greg curled one hand around Mycroft’s tie, taking one step back and then pulling him towards him so their lips met again in a fiery kiss.

Mycroft’s hands gripped Greg’s arse and they shuffled through to the bedroom, only breaking the kiss for a few brief seconds to assess their surroundings.

Greg sat down on the bed, hastily pulling the rest of his clothes off, while Mycroft did the same, standing and watching him. Greg reached forward and gripped his tie. “No,” he said, grinning. “Leave that on.”

Mycroft playfully rolled his eyes, kneeling down on the edge of the bed and letting Greg pull him down on top of him as they reignited the kiss, never once losing the original intensity.

They rocked their hips, their cocks aligning between their bodies. Greg moaned against Mycroft’s mouth, his fingers still curling around his tie.

Greg sighed in delight, taking hold of Mycroft’s shoulders and pushing him down onto his back. Mycroft watched him as Greg kissed quickly down his body, before flicking his tongue against his cock. From beneath him, Mycroft trembled and Greg took the head of his cock into his mouth.

He didn’t hold back. He hollowed his cheeks, taking as much as he could, bobbing his head and stroking Mycroft’s hips with his thumbs.

He looked up at Mycroft’s face with his parted lips and flushed cheeks, the tie still around his neck, stood out against his pale skin. Mycroft’s fingers stroked his shoulders and Greg flicked his tongue, using his hand to match the rhythm of his mouth.

Mycroft gasped and squeezed Greg’s shoulder. Greg didn’t stop for even a second, groaning as his partner let go and came. Greg swallowed, rubbing one of Mycroft’s thighs and only releasing him from his mouth as he began to relax back against the mattress.

Greg kissed his hip and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He smiled, resting his head against Mycroft’s thigh. Mycroft’s fingers ran through his hair. “Come up here,” Mycroft murmured.

Greg smiled, doing as instructed and sitting up at his side as he stroked Mycroft’s forehead. Mycroft wrapped his hand around Greg’s still-hard cock, rubbing his thumb against the head. Greg gasped, looking down at him.

“Bloody sexy,” Greg said, as Mycroft flicked his tongue out to lick the pad of his own thumb. Greg shivered. Mycroft moved a little, positioning himself so he could lick along Greg’s length, before drawing it into his own mouth.

They held each other’s eyes as Mycroft began to move his head, alternating between long licks and lowering his head again to suck hard. Greg stared at him as though he still couldn’t believe he had this man between his legs, those gorgeous lips wrapped around his cock.

Just when his legs began to shake and he almost couldn’t take those teasing touches anymore, Mycroft took him deep into his mouth, hollowing his cheeks and surrounding Greg’s cock in tight, wet heat.

Greg shuddered and curled his toes as he came, closing his eyes and brushing his fingers lazily through Mycroft’s hair. He tipped his head back as Mycroft lifted his head and sat up. Greg looked at him through his eyelashes, leaning forward to kiss Mycroft’s chin.

They gazed at each other and smiled.

“Dinner?” Mycroft asked.

“Take out?”

“Perfect.” Mycroft stood up, finally taking his tie off and putting a dressing gown on. Greg rolled onto his side, watching him. Mycroft leaned down to kiss Greg’s forehead before going into the en-suite.

Greg forced himself up from the bed, pulling his clothes on and wandering to the kitchen. He found the take away menus in the drawer and carried them back to the living room. He was just having a cigarette on the balcony when Mycroft joined him, taking it out of his mouth and having a drag himself.

Greg smiled and leaned into Mycroft’s side. “So, what happened in India? Anything exciting?”

“We achieved everything we wanted to.”

Greg nodded and nuzzled his neck. Mycroft dropped the cigarette on the floor and stamped it out and they both turned, almost instantaneously, to wrap their arms around each other in a close hug. Greg dropped his head to Mycroft’s shoulder, stroking his back through his shirt.

After several minutes they moved back inside, choosing their meals and eating in the kitchen discussing the past few weeks.

It was only when Mycroft passed Greg a spoon that Greg even noticed the mark on his arm. “What happened there?” Greg asked, taking hold of Mycroft’s wrist. He inspected the red circular near the inside of Mycroft’s elbow.

“A cigarette burn,” Mycroft said. “Someone got rather carried away.”

Greg raised his eyebrows. “You need to teach those diplomats to be more careful.”

Mycroft forced a smile and drank some water. “I’ll be more careful next time.”

“Better be. That’s two cigarette burns you’ve got now. At least Sherlock was high when he gave you the first one.”

Mycroft nodded. “Quite right,” he said.

They went to bed at 11.13pm, curling up under the covers. Greg lay at Mycroft’s side while he worked on his laptop, and fell asleep with Mycroft still working.

_He was trapped in a glass box, and he could only stare out of his as Mycroft was cut, whipped and beaten._

Greg woke with a gasp, to hear Mycroft soothingly murmuring against his cheek. “It’s alright, it’s alright. Greg, it’s alright.”

Disorientated, he looked around the room, wrapping his hand around the back of Mycroft’s neck, keeping him close.

“Shit, that was…” He frowned when he heard his voice shake. Mycroft brushed his lips against his cheek.

“It’s alright.”

Greg’s eyes began to adjust to the dark, and he looked at Mycroft sat to his side, their faces close together. Greg leaned up, kissed him firmly, just to prove he was there.

 

* * *

 

_One Night Later_

Mycroft had invited Greg round again. Mycroft was working, while Greg was watching the news. Greg felt his eyes begin to close. He shook his head. Mycroft looked up from where he was sat on the beside the fire.

“Greg, you’re exhausted. Go to bed.”

“No, I’m fine,” Greg replied stubbornly, wiping his eyes as though that would prove the point. God, but he was so tired, desperately avoiding sleep and the almost certain nightmares which stalked his every settled moment.

“You’re not fine,” Mycroft said. “Get some sleep. I will join you shortly.”

“I’ll wait up.”

“Go to bed, Greg.”

Greg huffed and got up. “Fine. I’ll just do everything Mycroft Holmes tells me to do.”

He stormed through to the bedroom and slammed the door shut before pulling his clothes off. He turned the light off, staring angrily at the ceiling.

Mycroft joined him a few moments later and sat on the bed. He brushed his fingers through Greg’s hair. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

Greg sighed, the anger dissipating. “Nothing,” he lied. “It’s fine. Sorry I snapped.”

“It’s fine,” Mycroft said, but it was clear from the tone of his voice that it wasn’t. Still, they didn’t mention it again as Mycroft joined him in bed and they fell asleep together.

Greg slept through the whole night without a hitch.

 

* * *

 

_The Next Day_

Mycroft had gone to work while Greg had a day off, leaving Greg to work in Mycroft’s office. Greg didn’t feel totally comfortable in there, but Mycroft had said he wanted to see him when he returned from work.

Greg woke with a start when he heard the door open. He looked up from the desk to see Mycroft standing at the door. Greg frowned and looked around. He’d fallen asleep on Mycroft’s desk. On the floor was a smashed mug.

Mycroft raised his eyebrows at him.

“Don’t worry,” Greg said. “Just got a lot on my plate.”

Mycroft nodded faintly and walked back out, leaving him to work out what those garbled sentences on his screen were supposed to say.

 

* * *

 

_One Night Later_

Greg yawned as he stumbled into his flat. Just needed to get into bed. Just undress and curl up and… “What the hell are you doing here?” he asked, staring at the man on his sofa.

“Pack a bag. We’re going away,” Mycroft said, not looking up from his laptop.

“What?”

“We each have a week off work.”

Greg stared at him. “No we don’t.”

“Yes we do.”

“No. I’m working on a case-”

Mycroft continued to type even as he spoke. “Sergeant Donovan is taking over for a week. We are going away.”

“You can’t just-”

“Yes I can. You are no use to anyone in your current state.”

“Mycroft, you can’t just come in here and tell me I have time off. I have a case.”

Mycroft closed the screen down and looked up at Greg. “You always have a damned case!”

Greg crossed his arms, Mycroft’s tone angering him further. “Because people keep killing each other.”

“Greg! You are going to make yourself ill. I am not going to sit here and allow that to happen. So pack your clothes. We’re going away.”

“You can’t just come here and manhandle me into going on holiday.”

“And if I said to you would you like to come on holiday with me for a week what would you have said?”

“Yes.”

Mycroft raised his eyebrows.

Greg sighed. “Fine, I’d have said I’d love to but I have a case.”

“Greg, you are working yourself into the ground. Ordinarily I would let you carry on until you realised what you were doing for yourself, but this has been going on long enough. You haven’t taken a holiday since Sherlock died. You have worked almost every day off. It’s unhealthy and you’re going to make yourself ill. When was the last time you had two nightmares in one night?”

Greg held his hands up. “Alright, alright, I give. But next time, ask before sorting my day off.”

“Sergeant Donovan completely agreed with me.”

Greg rolled his eyes and got a bag out from under the bed. He began to shove some clothes in it. “Course she did.”

“Greg.”

Greg frowned and turned to look at him. “What?”

“I’m sorry if you think I’m trying to control you. I’m concerned. That’s all.”

Greg studied him for a moment. He had a sincere expression. And he was taking a week off himself - and Mycroft was as much of a workaholic as he was.

Greg nodded, putting a pair of jeans down on the bed and walking towards him. “I know,” Greg said.

“It’s not easy for me to care this much,” Mycroft told him. “Perhaps I overstepped, but I did what I thought was best.”

Greg nodded, resting his hands on Mycroft’s hips. “I know that too. Look, I have to put up a bit of a fight, yeah? I’ve got my pride too.”

“I didn’t take into account how stressful this past year has been for you. I should have realised. You hide it very well. You’re not sleeping. And it concerns me.”

Greg shook his head. “Don’t be.”

Mycroft rubbed his thumb under Greg’s eyes. “I can’t bear to see you like this.”

Greg held his eyes for a few moment before sighing. “Fine,” he finally muttered. “Where we going anyway?”

“Away from London. Just for a few days.”

“I hate surprises,” Greg said.

“Says the man who surprises me. Constantly.”

Greg glanced up at Mycroft. They held each other’s long gaze before Greg finally nodded. “Sorry I’m being like this,” he said.

Mycroft shook his head. “I’m sorry I didn’t realise sooner.”

Greg finished packing his bag with clothes, took some items from the bathroom and finally nodded at Mycroft. “We can go then.”

He let Mycroft lead them out to the building and to the car. To his surprise, Mycroft got into the driver’s seat. Greg laughed as he got in on the passenger side. “You’re actually driving?”

Mycroft smiled. “I do, occasionally. And it’s hardly a holiday when the drivers come too.”

Greg laughed and nodded. Mycroft turned the radio on. It sounded a bit like BBC Radio 4, hardly Greg’s usual choice, but he relaxed into the seat, mesmerised by Mycroft’s measured driving style.

Greg woke up just as Mycroft was turning off the ignition. It was dark, but the lights on the car illuminated the large mansion in front of them.

“Nice hotel,” Greg remarked, looking up at it.

“This is my family home,” Mycroft said.

Greg turned and stared at him. “Sorry, what?”

“I’m sorry it has taken me so long to bring you here. But I hope you’ll like it.” Mycroft got out and retrieved their bags.

Greg frowned and got out of the car. “You live here?”

“I occasionally come here to think.”

“To this… palace.”

“It’s not a palace, Greg.”

“It’s a bloody mansion.”

“Closer, yes.”

Greg just shook his head as he followed Mycroft up the path. He stared at the ornate door with a knocker to rival the one on 221b. He stepped in after Mycroft, glancing around the large hallway, the walls covered in dark wooden panels.

“Bit… big for two people,” Greg said.

“Far too big for just one,” Mycroft said.

Greg’s heart ached for him then. He walked over, cupping his cheeks and kissing him lightly. “Give me the tour?” he asked.

Mycroft nodded.

“Hey,” Greg said, touching Mycroft’s chin with his thumb and forefinger. “This is brilliant. Big surprise, but it’s good.”

Mycroft smiled and kissed him, taking hold of his hand. “Hallway, obviously. Through here is the main, formal reception room.” Mycroft opened a door, opening into a large sitting room. He turned the light on.

The walls were a dark wood with one deep red rug on the floor on top of an original mahogany floor. Greg let out a low whistle. “Nice fireplace,” he said. “Definite lack of telly though.”

Mycroft smiled. “We have a less formal room… perhaps you’d prefer that one?”

“Did you grow up here?” Greg asked, walking to one wall to study a painting. It looked like the house they were in.

“Yes. Until Sherlock was seven.”

“Then what happened?” Greg asked.

“Our parents decided we should meet other children.” Mycroft said it with a trace of distaste in his voice, but it only made Greg smile. Greg followed Mycroft out of the room. He led them to another lounge, one with a television and more comfortable-looking sofas.

They visited a dining room, complete with suits of armour either side of a long table. Mycroft showed him to the music room, with a grand piano, and an office which Mycroft said was once his mother’s.

There was a library through another door, with bookcases stretching from floor to ceiling. All of the rooms had the same dark wood on the walls and floors.

They went upstairs next, and Mycroft opened one door. “This was once my bedroom,” he said.

Greg stepped in. There was a single bed beside the window. A globe stood in one corner, beside a roll-top desk. Greg glanced at Mycroft. His head was bowed, his hands in his pockets. Greg frowned. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

Mycroft shook his head as he looked back up. “I don’t often come in here,” was all he said.

Greg kissed his cheek before stepping further into the room, glancing at the framed posters at the wall. One had drawings of dinosaur bones, each labelled with thin, loopy handwriting. Another poster showed the constellations. Greg studied another print. “I know this.”

“Convex And Concave by M. C. Escher,” Mycroft said.

Greg nodded. “C’mere,” he said, reaching out a hand. Mycroft walked towards him, accepting Greg’s hand and standing close. “Was it lonely?” Greg asked, squeezing his hand.

“Perhaps. I didn’t know any different. And when I did…” Mycroft frowned, studying the dinosaur poster. “I labelled that one incorrectly,” he murmured, touching the glass.

“How old were you when you did that?” Greg asked.

“Perhaps nine or 10.”

“Your handwriting’s amazing.”

Mycroft smiled a bit as Greg looked around. He could imagine Mycroft in here, reading at his desk or hiding under the duvet as he read. Greg turned to face him, kissing his cheek and then his lips.

“Always here if you want to tell me,” was all Greg said as he looked at him.

Mycroft nodded and stepped closer, letting go of Greg’s hand and wrapping his arms around him. Greg returned the embrace, relaxing into his warmth. They held each other for a while, stood in a room which felt like it had been frozen in time.

Eventually Greg stepped away and took Mycroft’s hand again, leading him back out. “Where’s our room?”

Mycroft led him down the hallway and opened the door. There was a four-poster bed in the centre of it. Greg smiled and took a seat on the edge of the bed. Mycroft smiled as he watched.

Greg kicked his shoes off. “So, we’ve got a week?” Greg asked.

“A whole week,” Mycroft said. “You have my undivided attention.”

Greg smiled. “I know I was being a stubborn bastard back at mine. But I’m really, really glad you brought me here.”

“I haven’t taken a holiday in a long time either,” Mycroft said as he took his tie off and hung it up in the wardrobe.

“Do you like it here?” Greg asked, studying him.

“I like the quiet.” Mycroft walked over, sitting beside him on the bed.

Greg rested a hand on his thigh. They gazed at each other. There was a pause for a moment before they leaned towards each other, sharing a single chaste kiss.

“What’s around here?” Greg asked him, unfastening his belt and trousers and dropping them onto the floor.

Mycroft unfastened his waistcoat and stood up to hang it up. “Miles of fields. But there is a village nearby with a pub and shops and one restaurant.”

Greg smiled and pulled his shirt off. “Bathroom’s where?”

“Leave the room and it’s the second door to the right.”

Greg grinned and kissed Mycroft as he went. “I’ll get our bags from downstairs first,” he said.

He and Mycroft clambered into bed 20 minutes later, turning the lights off and settling down beside each other.

Greg shuffled closer, resting his head on Mycroft’s chest. “Exhausted,” he murmured, as Mycroft’s fingers began to thread through his hair.

“I know.”

“What’s the plan for tomorrow?” Greg asked as he yawned.

Mycroft kissed his head. “Breakfast and anything you like. We can go for a drive or go for a walk. You can read a book, watch films or television, or lie in bed all day.”

“Mmmm.”

“Sleep, Greg.”

He nodded, listening to Mycroft’s heartbeat as he drifted off to sleep.

 

* * *

 

The next day, they went for a walk in the gardens. Mycroft told Greg about the history of the building and pointed out the edible plants.

The heavens opened when they were still a long way from the house and Mycroft opened his umbrella to shield them. Greg laughed, stepping close to him, and they walked towards a greenhouse.

Mycroft unlocked the door and they stepped in, grinning at each other as they watched the rain. Greg kissed him, pulling him close.

They shared a heated kiss while the rain tapped against the glass roof, wrapped around each other. Greg sunk down to his knees after a few moments, grabbing a kneeling cushion meant for gardening from the side. It made Mycroft laugh, and Greg grinned up at him.

“I’m an old man,” he said, unfastening Mycroft’s belt.

Mycroft laughed. “Hardly,” he said, stroking Greg’s hair. He let out a pleased sigh as Greg took him into his mouth. Greg used all the tricks he could think of, flicking his tongue and humming.

He pulled Mycroft to the edge and then let go, stroking his length lightly with the sides of his fingers.

Mycroft let out a breathy laugh. “Is this revenge?” he asked.

Greg grinned and cupped his balls. “No. Not this time.” He winked and took Mycroft’s prick deep in his mouth, not holding back as he sucked in time with the movement of his hand.

Mycroft’s fingers curled in his hair and he trembled, coming in Greg’s mouth. Greg swallowed, stroking his hips before slowly pulling back.

He stood and kissed the side of Mycroft’s neck as he pulled his trousers back on. The rain was easing off, and they walked back through the gardens with their arms wrapped around each other.

They cooked dinner together, preparing steaks with lattice potatoes and vegetables. Mycroft led Greg down to the wine cellar, and Greg stared at the dusty bottles on offer. “Bloody hell,” he said, brushing one finger through the dust and wiping it on his trousers.

Mycroft chuckled and took out a bottle. “This one will suit the meat,” he said.

They carried it upstairs, and Greg dished up, carrying everything to the dining room.

“I was home-schooled here,” Mycroft said as they ate. “My teaching was done primarily in the library. When Sherlock was seven, our parents thought we had spent too much of our lives in the company of adults. When I was 14, I went to a boarding school.”

“What was that like?”

“Hideous. All those children… they seemed so stupid. And worse than that, it was exhausting. I was used to one-on-one conversations. Or when our parents held dinner parties, I only had to sit and listen. But at school… I know now that schools have classrooms with up to 30 children, but there were 12 in mine. I found it impossible to both pay attention to the lesson and follow social niceties simultaneously.”

Greg nodded and sipped his wine. “What did that mean?”

“I was not well-liked.”

Greg reached out to stroke his arm. “You did it though. Work out how to be a genius and be nice to people.”

Mycroft frowned. “With Anthea’s help. She prepares gifts for my staff and tells me when they are due promotions and pay rises or when they have done good work. It appears as though I’m the one giving them favours, but I couldn’t do it without her.”

“I think you’ve got a good heart, Mycroft.”

Mycroft glanced at him. “I wish I could say it was half as good as yours.”

Greg paused, putting his knife and fork down. “Bear with me a sec?”

Mycroft nodded. “Of course.”

Greg pressed his lips together, thinking. “You have this amazing brain. I mean, I used to watch Sherlock struggle with it basically every week. It makes sense to me, if people think you’re cold. But I don’t think it’s because you’re a heartless bastard, I think it’s for a few reasons.”

“And they are?”

“You can’t let the people you work with know when stuff bothers you, because you have to be the one in control. You don’t like to be emotional, and you think with your head not your heart like I do. But maybe it’s like when you were still a kid? Too much effort in your head, not much spent on building some sort of… Damn, can’t think of the word.”

“Persona?”

Greg nodded and pointed at him. “That’s the one, yeah.”

Mycroft nodded slowly and finished his food. “If I’m not cold with you, it’s because you make it quiet.”

Greg rubbed Mycroft’s knee. “I’m the luckiest bloke in the world. Promise.”

Mycroft shook his head. “I disagree.”

Greg stood up and kissed his head. “Let’s have this wine on the sofa?”

Mycroft nodded. “I’d love to.”

They cleared the dishes away and washed up before curling up under a throw, watching the fire.

Greg took Mycroft’s glass from him, putting it down on the table beside his own. Mycroft watched him curiously.

Greg leaned forward and kissed him, just a soft brushing of lips.

“Y’know something, Mycroft?” Greg said. “Sometimes you’ve told me I’m the best and kindest bloke you’ve met and stuff. And I really think you mean that, and it’s great when you say it. So, I’m going to tell you something. Are you listening?”

Mycroft nodded, frowning.

“I look at you, and most of the time I just think you’re so…” Greg shook his head. “Look at you. You’re bloody perfect. You’re gorgeous, you’re so smart, you look good in a suit.” Greg gave him a once over. “So good in a suit. You have a posh flat, get chauffeured around London, great job. And me,” Greg added cheekily.

Mycroft chuckled and stroked Greg’s knee.

“So, I forget that things haven’t always been easy for you. You didn’t do drugs like Sherlock, you don’t get in any trouble, you don’t have half the temper I have. I mean… Mycroft, you have those bloody scars across your back and you just get on with it like it never happened. I don’t know how you do it. Sometimes I forget things have ever hurt you. I see it a bit, sometimes, but not much.”

Greg stroked Mycroft’s fingers. “I think what I’m trying to say, is you’re incredible. You’re perfect for me. Every day with you in it…” He shook his head.

“I know,” Mycroft said. “I feel that too.”

“I’m fucking lucky to even know you. Let alone get to share a bed with you.”

A slow, hesitant smile began to grow on Mycroft’s face. Greg kissed the corner of his mouth as he added, “I dunno if I mentioned the bit where you’re great in bed.”

Mycroft began to laugh then, pulling Greg close and drawing him into a kiss. They smiled against each other’s lips before deepening it, flicking tongues out to taste and sliding their hands under each other’s clothes.

Each item of clothing was removed every few minutes as they kissed, their legs entwined on the sofa as Greg pushed Mycroft down onto his back.

When they had finally stripped down to just their underwear, Greg found himself staring at Mycroft’s grey eyes, letting his hand stroke slowly over his body while Mycroft watched him with a smile.

“Shall I go upstairs and get…” Greg started.

Mycroft nodded. “We could both go upstairs.”

Greg smiled and kissed him. “I like the fire.” He stood up, gave Mycroft one last lingering look, and left the room. He retrieved the lube and condoms quickly, and returned to the lounge.

Mycroft had turned the lamp off, and the only light in the room was the flickering flames of the fire.

Mycroft, Greg thought, was stunning, stretched out along the sofa, his pale skin illuminated by the light. He was, there was no doubt, the most beautiful man in the world.

Greg pulled his own underwear off before joining Mycroft on the sofa. Mycroft drew him into a quick kiss. They looked at each other and Mycroft nodded, hooking his fingers in his underwear and arching up to pull them down. Greg took them off the rest of the way and took the cap off the bottle of lubricant.

“Y’sure?” Greg asked.

Mycroft nodded. “Always,” he said.

“Roll over?” Greg said. “Just for now.”

Mycroft kissed him before rolling over onto his front, resting his head on the cushion. Greg smiled to himself, kissing down the back of his lover’s neck, listening for every contented sigh.

He kissed slowly down Mycroft’s back. In the dim light, he could hardly see the scars, but he kissed the lines he could see and those he couldn’t. And though it still hurt to know Mycroft had been hurt, he hoped he could replace some of those harsh, brutal memories with softer, more long-lasting ones.

Mycroft spread his legs a bit as Greg reached his lower back. He kissed the two dimples, before squeezing Mycroft’s arse and dipping his tongue down between his cheeks.

Mycroft trembled beneath him, and Greg felt his own body shaking, his cock almost painfully hard. He flicked his tongue against Mycroft’s hole. Mycroft gasped at the contact, and emboldened, Greg continued to swipe his tongue against him.

He lubed his fingers, pulling back only to rub the tip of his index finger slowly around Mycroft’s entrance.

“More,” Mycroft murmured, and Greg obliged, easing in one finger.

“God, you’re gorgeous,” Greg said, smiling when Mycroft let out a soft sigh of approval. Greg moved his finger slowly, dotting kisses over Mycroft’s lower back and his thighs.

When Mycroft began to move his hips, Greg eased in a second finger, curling them gently. Mycroft was making small sounds, and Greg had to smile, loving the effect it was having on him.

“I’m ready,” Mycroft said.

Greg groaned and sat up, hurriedly easing a condom on. Mycroft rolled over, wrapping his legs around Greg’s waist.

They kissed slowly and sweetly as Greg pressed inside, Mycroft’s hands seemingly everywhere on his body.

Greg gasped and groaned with every slow, drawn-out movement as they found a steady rhythm. They couldn’t take their eyes off each other. Greg felt like he was drowning in those grey eyes, every movement pulling him closer to the edge while at the same time he wished it would never end.

He loved him so, so much.

He wrapped his hand around Mycroft’s cock, kissing him messily as Mycroft came undone beneath him with a cry, spilling over Greg’s fingers and his stomach.

Watching Mycroft lose himself to pleasure was all it took for Greg to reach his own climax, and Mycroft guided him through it, kissing all over his face.

Greg’s back was slick with sweat, but he let himself be held by Mycroft as they got their breaths back.

Sticky and hot, Greg eventually pulled back, sitting up on the side of the sofa. Mycroft sat up behind him, kissing his shoulders.

“Wonderful,” Mycroft murmured. “You’re wonderful.”

Greg smiled, tilting his head back to rest on Mycroft’s shoulder. “You too,” he said.

They kissed again, watching the flames.

It took 10 minutes before Greg finally decided he had to get up and reluctantly pulled himself out of Mycroft’s embrace.

They went to bed naked, still kissing and touching silently in the dark, and Greg thought he’d never felt closer to anyone in his life.

_Greg was running through some woods._

_Every so often was an explosion, and he heard screams. There were mines in the ground, and he had to hope and pray he missed them. His feet were pounding on hard ground, but it was getting soft underfoot as the rain battered down around him._

_He was running towards a floodlight, not unlike those found at sport stadiums. He had to get there, and he would be okay._

_It was getting nearer and nearer, thank God._

_The sun was rising._

_Somehow, and suddenly, Greg was on that field. He saw something red on the ground. He saw the boy in the red t-shirt, dead and-_

_”Greg.”_

“Greg, you’re shouting.”

He woke with a start, his body coated in sweat. He was already sat up, and he rubbed his hands over his hot face. He closed his eyes for one brief second, but the same images flashed before him and he had to stare into the dark room instead.

From beside him, he began to be aware that Mycroft was stroking his arms, and murmuring his name.

“I’m fine,” Greg whispered, finally lying back down above the covers. “Promise, I’m fine.”

Mycroft lay down beside him and stroked his hair. “It might help if you talked about it.”

“I don’t want to.”

Mycroft sighed and dropped his hand.

“Don’t give me that,” Greg said, rolling onto his side so his back was to him.

“I don’t believe I was giving you anything,” Mycroft replied, but there was irritation in his tone.

“You’re doing that ‘people are stupid’ thing about me. I don’t like it.”

“Greg, I was doing no such thing.”

“What time is it?” Greg asked.

Mycroft paused and then answered. “4.45am.”

“Right, I’m getting up.” Greg sat up and got out of the bed.

“Greg, don’t go. I’m not unhappy with you, please come back to bed.”

“I can’t,” Greg said. “Every time I shut my eyes, I see it. So, no.” He leaned down and kissed Mycroft’s head. “I’ll have breakfast ready for when you get up.” He grabbed a dressing gown and hesitated when he reached the door. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s quite alright,” Mycroft said quietly.

Greg walked out and wandered downstairs. He had a cigarette and made himself a coffee before settling down in the lounge with a book.

Mycroft joined him for breakfast at 8.12am. They didn’t mention that morning. Instead, they watched the news together before driving to the village. They spent some time wandering around and Mycroft bought some secondhand books from an antique shop.

They had lunch in the pub, Greg watching the football while Mycroft asked him questions about the game. They made dinner together, but as the day wore on, Greg couldn’t help but think things were slightly strained.

After eating their pasta and washing up, Mycroft sat in the living room with a book. Greg lingered in the kitchen, leaning against the side.

He wanted to share everything with Mycroft. And he felt more and more guilty that he’d been so off with him that morning, just pushing him away.

Just like he’d done with Caroline and Jane.

This was Mycroft. The only person Greg thought ever really understood him. And he wasn’t going to destroy another relationship because he was too afraid to admit what he was thinking.

He joined Mycroft on the sofa. Mycroft glanced up from his book but didn’t say a word. Greg took a long sip of his wine and topped up his glass and then Mycroft’s.

“You want to know about the nightmares,” Greg finally said.

Mycroft glanced up from his book. “I want to know everything about you, that you are willing to share,” he said diplomatically. “If you want to talk about the nightmares, then I will listen. But you can tell me all or nothing. It doesn’t change anything.”

“I never…” Greg pressed his lips together as he trailed off. How the hell did he even begin to tell anyone this?

“I know,” Mycroft said.

Greg nodded. He had a long sip of his wine. He glanced at Mycroft, who was evidently wavering between whether it was best to close his book or return to it.

“It’s a kid,” Greg finally said. He frowned at himself, as though surprised he’d actually said it.

Mycroft just nodded in response.

“It’s… the same kid. Always the same kid.” He took a long breath, staring at the wall in front of them. “His name.” Greg sighed. He hadn’t said his name in years. “His name was Jamall Milone.” He blinked. That hadn’t been so hard…

“I was just a PC at the time,” he continued. “Got a call through one afternoon that there had been a body found. I was only a few streets down, so I went straight there. I was first on the scene. And I found him.”

The image flashed through his head. A field, the grass and mud squelching underfoot. He could see his own breath in the air. Bushes along one side with two goalposts the only things in that field. Under one was a blue jacket. That was the first thing which Greg paid much mind to.

He glanced around. A flash of red before his eyes then. He walked over to it, pace quickening with every step. And then he stopped dead in his tracks.

“He was so small,” Greg said, rubbing his temple. “Wearing… he wore a red t-shirt. And his face…”

He was covered in bruises. Blood. He had a string of rope around one wrist, which was covering part of his face.

“I had to secure the scene, which wasn’t hard, because no one wanted to be out in that field. It was bloody freezing. I was there about 20 minutes before anyone joined me. Stood just… scaring off the birds. Couldn’t look away, he was so small. It wasn’t the first body I ever saw but it was the smallest. For ages, that was all I really remembered. He was small.”

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Mycroft nod, the book open on his lap.

The team had joined him then. They surrounded the scene in police tape. Carter was there, and he patted Greg on the shoulder, but he had barely acknowledged it. He had to stand and secure the scene. That was his job. He stood there for hours. He didn’t take a break. He wasn’t going to let anyone get close to that kid, his body was under their protection now.

He remembered hearing the jokes, not about the kid or the body, but because sometimes that was what cops had to do to separate themselves from what they were seeing.

But every word was a knife to Greg’s bones.

“It wasn’t my case,” Greg said after a few long silent minutes. “You know, I was a PC, my job was to do all the dirty work. But Carter… Carter was just a newbie on the serious crime division at that point. He kept me informed about it, I dunno why.”

Greg took a long swig from his wine glass and topped it up again. “Maybe he knew I’d be interested. It took a few days to identify him. His face was…” Beyond recognisable. “It was awful. Eventually they worked out who it was. Jamall Milone. He was a foster kid. Been in the system since he was a baby. And one day, no one knows why, he ran away.”

Greg fell silent then. He remembered the news bulletins. Report after report on the BBC and ITV and all the front of the newspapers.

“The press gave the cops on the case a right hounding. We had them basically camped outside the Yard looking for a scoop. They couldn’t understand why we couldn’t figure it out. Someone had found, tortured and killed that kid and then just dumped him. The nightmares started months later. They were really bad. I mean, so bad I took time off. I was a fucking mess after it.”

Greg rubbed his face. “When I joined the serious crime division, no one had solved it. So I picked it back up. There was a new DI in charge then, and I told him we needed to open the case again. He said he didn’t have the time or the cops to spare, so I could head it up. It was a big confidence boost, that. So, I went through everything. It was all new to me, I hadn’t really been involved the first time.”

He spent hours in the Yard, pouring over the evidence and pictures. He had flashbacks, night after night, but he kept working because he had to solve it.

“I couldn’t do it. I followed every lead I could think of. I questioned everyone I could track down. Followed up everything, I went through the box of evidence. All of it. I still failed him. And the thing…” Greg frowned, thinking. “The thing that pissed me off the whole way through was this kid, smart kid, good grades. No one gave a flying fuck about him except me, the police who worked on the case the first time around and the bloody press.”

Greg shook his head. “He was just a foster kid, wasn’t he?” he said bitterly. “No one cared. No one wanted him. And he died this horrible, brutal death and I couldn’t help him. Couldn’t even catch the bastard who did it. And I know how his life was.” I know because I lived it. “It wasn’t a happy one. You could be in the best kid’s home in the world, but it’s not happy. You don’t form any attachments, because those kids you make friends with will leave, or the foster parents give you back or the staff quit or move away. It’s just you, on your own and you’re left there at bloody five years old, wondering why no one ever loved you enough to keep you.”

He reached his hand out and Mycroft found it immediately, curling their hands around each other’s.

“After I closed that case, I started having nightmares about him again. He’d turn up everywhere in my head. And he won’t go away. I feel his fear sometimes. Wake up shaking or being sick. Sometimes I thought I wasn’t cut out for this job. But no other case has affected me like that, so maybe it was a one-off.” Greg squeezed Mycroft’s hand and shrugged. “So. That’s it.”

“You astonish me every day.”

Greg turned and frowned at him. That wasn’t what he had expected, though he wasn’t sure what he wanted Mycroft to say.

Mycroft reached out and touched his face. “I have never met anyone who cares as much as you. It is both your finest quality, and, I can imagine, sometimes the most difficult to live with.”

Greg nodded silently. “I thought sometimes of letting Sherlock look at it,” Greg admitted. “But he has-had the sensitivity of a hammer against my head, I just couldn’t cope with him being cruel about it. Even if it was just to call me an idiot for overlooking something. I think now, I should have done it. I owed Jamall that much, I should have given the case to the smartest detective I knew. And I didn’t. Let ‘em both down.”

“You didn’t let anyone down. But if ever you want a second opinion, I would donate my time to it.”

Greg stared at him. “You would?”

“If you wanted, but I understand it might offend you that I’m even offering.”

“Take it,” Greg said. “Yeah, have all of it, everything you need. I just… I need to know I didn’t miss anything.”

“I understand. Greg, you are a wonderful man. The greatest I’ve ever known.”

Greg shook his head and shuffled along the chair, curling into Mycroft’s side. They sat in silence for a long time, holding onto each other.

Eventually they wandered up to bed.

They made love, hot and desperate as Mycroft took Greg from behind, his nails on Greg’s back and his fingers digging into his hips almost enough to leave bruises.

And they pulled apart so they could finish off facing each other, getting off on each other’s expressions and sounds as much as the overwhelming pleasure.

Greg came with Mycroft’s name on his lips as he relaxed, completely and utterly, remembering how he had never adored anyone so much.

Mycroft held him. They lay there not saying a word for a long time, catching their breaths and losing themselves in soft kisses. Mycroft broke the silence between them first. “I will keep you, Greg,” he said, his voice gentle but resolute. “For as long as you will have me.”

Greg glanced at him and nodded. Somehow, he already knew that.

An hour later, they lay in the dark, curled up. Greg listened to Mycroft’s soft breathing. He was certain Mycroft was already fast asleep, so when he suddenly spoke, Greg almost jumped.

“The second man I ever…” Mycroft started. He sighed.

Greg frowned. “It’s alright,” he said, kissing his shoulder. “Look just ‘cause I told you that stuff, you don’t have to do the same.”

“I want to,” Mycroft said. But then he fell silent again.

Greg stayed quiet too, not even daring to move. He thought it must have been at least half an hour before Mycroft began to speak again.

“I was 24 when I was working for MI6 in America. Jimmy Dine was a CIA agent, several years older than I. He was arrogant, but simply masterful at his job. He could talk terrorists round and round in circles until they confessed in under an hour. He was an expert shot. He was there the first time I killed a man.”

The first time? Greg raised his eyebrows, but stayed quiet, glad Mycroft wouldn’t be able to make out his expressions in the dark. Maybe that was easier. Talking to a silhouette rather than seeing their face.

“We were running through a warehouse, being shot at from all directions,” Mycroft continued. “We weren’t in the USA, we were elsewhere.”

Quiet again then, for a long while.

“There was a man, tall, with a tattoo on his face and it was he or I and I shot and I killed him,” Mycroft finally said. “Jimmy and I… we worked long hours, when we weren’t working we were together. There was a mission. Foolhardy mission, and we all knew it. Jimmy volunteered because that was what he did. He regularly ran in and saved the day, he liked to see himself as a superhero.”

Mycroft paused then. Greg just rubbed his thumb against Mycroft’s knuckles for several long minutes. Mycroft picked up the thread again. “Someone made a mistake. They miscalculated, or they trusted faulty intelligence. I never completely understood what happened. Jimmy made an error too. Several. Each mistake, taken on their own, may have been alright. But they combined and we lost three that night. Jimmy was one of them. I’m not sure there was very much left of him to return to his family.”

“Oh God,” Greg whispered.

“We were together two months, it’s hardly enough to be sentimental over.”

“Did you love him?”

“No. I could have done, I suppose. In enough time.”

Greg nodded and squeezed Mycroft’s hand.

“I’m not telling you for sympathy,” Mycroft said, though he squeezed Greg’s hand back.

“I know. I know.” Greg paused. “Have you ever… told anyone?” he asked.

“No.”

Greg nodded. He pulled Mycroft closer, kissing his hair. He appreciated Mycroft telling him more than he could say, that Greg had shared his deepest fears, the very darkest holes in his soul and Mycroft did likewise.

They kissed to remind each other they were there.

When they woke up the next morning, still wrapped around each other, it was already 9.47am.

Greg woke with a smile on his face.


	56. Are You The One I've Come To Save?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks guys! Thanks to Mice, cltc75, Jaeh, psychicdreams, MoonRiver, roosickle, artemisdecibal, KingTaran, Kaykil, CommunionNimrod, JustLookFrightenedAndScuttle, vanya, WhiskeySally, ladyxdarcy, falconieri, miss_anthr0pe, sherl_jawn, Dravni, Kaci. I love you all :)

_March, 2012_

On the last night of their trip away, Greg lay across the sofa, his head in Mycroft’s lap. Mycroft was reading some vital paperwork, but every so often he let one hand slip off his documents to brush his fingers through Greg’s hair, stroke his forehead and touch his cheek.

Greg let out a contented sigh, listening to the light piano music Mycroft had put on a few hours earlier.

Mycroft put the papers down on the sofa. Greg opened one eye and reached his hand up. Mycroft entwined their fingers and lifted Greg’s hand to his mouth so he could kiss each digit in turn.

Greg smiled up at him. “Thanks for this week.”

“You’re welcome. We will do this again, I promise.”

Greg nodded, closing his eyes again and letting the music wash over him. Mycroft’s fingers began a slow exploration of his own, his thumb tracing the rise and fall of his knuckles before turning Greg’s hand over to stroke along each line on his palm with his index finger.

“Tickles,” Greg murmured.

Mycroft kissed the inside of his wrist.

“Should go to bed,” Greg said, frowning.

“Mmm,” Mycroft replied, kissing Greg’s knuckles.

Greg laughed, opening his eyes to look up at him. Mycroft smiled and Greg sat up, shuffling back along the sofa so he could press their lips together.

It was just an affectionate kiss which lingered for a few seconds. But as Greg pulled back, he saw Mycroft’s eyes, half-lidded and dark. Greg grinned slowly. “Bed?”

“Yes, I think that would be a good idea.”

Greg grinned and stood up, holding his hand out for Mycroft to take. Mycroft took it and looked up at him. “What do you want?” Mycroft asked, rubbing his thumb against Greg’s.

“Want?” Greg repeated.

“Right now. If you could have anything in the world in bed, any way. What would you choose?”

“Oh God.” Greg grinned. “That’s a big question. I really don’t know how to answer that.”

Mycroft stood up, taking a step closer to Greg as he did, so their bodies were almost touching. Greg caught his breath as Mycroft tilted his head, brushing his lips against Greg’s jaw and then kissing down his neck.

“Start thinking,” Mycroft murmured, pressing one hand to the centre of Greg’s chest.

“Thinking,” Greg repeated, as Mycroft’s tongue flicked against his earlobe. His knees shook. “Oh, come on. Play fair.”

Mycroft kissed him then. Slowly, tortuously so, as he drew each of Greg’s lips between his own, one at a time. As Greg tried to deepen the kiss, tried to slide his tongue into Mycroft’s mouth, Mycroft pulled back, grazing his teeth against Greg’s bottom lip before igniting the kiss again.

Greg groaned, pulling Mycroft tighter against him. He could feel his erection beside his own, and he tangled one hand in Mycroft’s hair, the other sliding down to grab his arse.

Mycroft pulled back, his cheeks pink. “How did the thinking go?” he asked.

Greg laughed. “I couldn’t.” He cupped Mycroft’s face. “I want you so much, get your arse up to bed.”

Mycroft smiled and Greg kissed him before stepping back. Greg led the way up the stairs, turning back every so often to look back at him and grin.

They got to the bedroom, staring at each other from across the room. Greg licked his lips and smiled. “Love you,” he said.

Mycroft smiled, one of those rare ones where his eyes lit up and he looked as though nothing could ever be wrong. Greg couldn’t help but beam back at him.

“I love you too,” Mycroft said, and he walked towards Greg, cupping his cheek and kissing him.

Greg grinned. “When you say that…” He shook his head.

Mycroft smiled and kissed him again before nudging their noses together. “Why don’t we share a bath?”

“That sounds great. Good idea.”

He followed Mycroft to the bathroom, checking out his arse as he bent over to put the plug in, turn the taps on and pour in some bubble bath.

“Let me undress you?” Greg asked, stepping away from the wall. Mycroft nodded to him and Greg slowly began to peel off the layers of clothes, kissing and stroking the parts of his body he uncovered.

Greg sighed as he stroked his hands down Mycroft’s bare chest. It struck him sometimes that he must have done something right to be this lucky. He wrapped his arms around Mycroft’s neck. “You mean the world to me,” he said, kissing his cheek.

“I don’t know what I did right to deserve you,” Mycroft said, turning his attention to Greg’s clothing.

Greg shook his head, and let Mycroft undress him until they stood naked, embracing in the middle of the bathroom. Mycroft let go first, turning the taps off. Greg got in, gradually easing his way into the large bath until he was propped up against the back, his legs spread wide so Mycroft could fit in with him.

With Mycroft’s back against his chest and Greg’s arms around his middle, he sighed, listening to Mycroft’s breathing and the gentle lapping of the water. He tipped his head back, closing his eyes.

“So what do you fantasise about?” Greg asked as he scooped up some bubbles, rubbing them mindlessly against Mycroft’s chest.

“Always you,” Mycroft replied, letting his head drop back onto Greg’s shoulder. “Mostly I can’t get enough of you. I like making it last.”

Greg laughed, kissing the top of his head. “Yeah, I have noticed that. I love that. So, I have a question. The night we got together… before then, you had always been on top. That night it was me. And I was curious about what that was.”

Mycroft frowned a little. “You’re talking specifically about the night we got together?”

“Yep. Just wondered.”

Greg felt Mycroft nod and take hold of his hands. “It was simply about trust.”

“Just I had you down always as a top,” Greg said.

Mycroft paused for a moment. “I like to feel in control. To be certain about what’s happening next. But I do enjoy receiving, as it were.”

“I don’t see it as being about control. I just see it as whether you enjoy it or not.”

Mycroft smiled. “I certainly enjoyed it. I’ve not done it particularly often. What do you prefer?”

“Either,” Greg said. “I always seemed to swap around depending on the bloke. I’m quite happy with it all.”

“In the past, I’ve always found it difficult to trust a new partner to know what they were doing. I have no such qualms with you.”

Greg nodded. “I understand that.”

“It’s the most intimate thing I can imagine. Letting someone inside you, letting someone be on top and to see you…”

“Vulnerable,” Greg finished for him.

Mycroft nodded. “Once someone has seen you that way, they’ll never lose that impression. That you can be taken and dominated. That you can be in some ways controlled.”

Greg shook his head. “No idea who taught you that sex had to be like that, but they were wrong.”

Mycroft pressed his lips together, considering. “After my first two partners, I have always had sexual liaisons with men in powerful positions. Those where dominance and control actually mattered.”

“So, you don’t want to feel weak. Like you’re giving them the upper hand.”

“Precisely.”

“And so if you bottom… then you’re letting them be in charge, making them feel like they have something over you.”

“Yes.”

“But do you feel that way about me? That you’ve dominated me and made me weaker because of it?”

Mycroft frowned. “Not at all.”

“Sex isn’t a game.”

“In the past, for me, it has been,” Mycroft said. “It was a power play.”

“Is that ever how you saw me?”

“Never. But then it never was just sex.”

Greg hesitated for a moment, thinking back all those years to those heady days of passion when they wouldn’t kiss goodnight, or when he swore he wouldn’t pull Mycroft into his arms though he wanted to. When Mycroft would curl up with him anyway, and they would sit and talk about their lives. “Yeah,” Greg finally agreed. “Yeah, it never was, was it?”

“Sometimes it felt like the hardest part of my day was letting you leave.”

Greg smiled, a little wistful, and kissed Mycroft’s hair. “I wish you’d told me. I wish I’d known.”

“And what would we have done?” Mycroft asked.

“We’d just… have been together. You and me. I mean… tell me if I’m wrong but… this is it, isn’t it? I mean, I’m not sitting here wondering where this is going. For me… Mycroft. I mean this is… it’s…”

“The rest of our lives,” Mycroft finished for him.

“Yeah.”

Mycroft nodded, and he squeezed Greg’s hands. “Greg, I’m keeping a terrible secret from you. And I can’t tell you.”

Greg frowned. “Why?”

“Too many lives are at stake. But not telling you is breaking my heart.” Mycroft lifted his head and looked round at him. “I’m sorry I can’t tell you.”

“It’s alright,” Greg said, though he still felt sceptical. “I know what it’s like.”

Mycroft looked down at Greg’s chest, his lips pressed tight together. “Hey,” Greg whispered, lifting a wet hand to touch the side of his face. “Hey, hey, come on. Whatever it is, it’s going to be okay.”

“I don’t know that it is,” Mycroft said.

“What can I do?” Greg asked. “Just name it.”

Mycroft nodded, turning back and resting against Greg. Greg wrapped his arms around him and held him close.

“Sometimes I think you look like you have the weight of the world on your shoulders,” Greg told him before kissing his hair. “Then I remember you sometimes actually do.”

Mycroft stayed quiet and Greg watched him as he stared at the wall.

“What goes through this head of yours, hey?” Greg asked, kissing it.

“There’s too much,” Mycroft said quietly.

“Struggling?” Greg asked.

Mycroft nodded.

“Close your eyes,” Greg whispered.

Mycroft nodded and tilted his head back again.

“Remember the Natural History Museum?” Greg asked. “And the big dinosaur.”

“Dippy.”

Greg smiled. “And when we went and saw that evolution thing.”

“Archaeopteryx.”

“And you kissed me in that room, remember? And you said you stored all our memories in that room.”

“I still do.”

“Why don’t you pick one?” Greg asked. “Does it work like that? Can you just open a drawer or look at a display and remember something?”

“Yes.”

“Pick a happy one.”

“You put your feet on my desk,” Mycroft murmured.

Greg chuckled. “More than once.”

“I thought, ‘well, at least he took his shoes off first’. And then I thought if it were anyone else I would be telling them to stop immediately. I knew I was in trouble, because I wasn’t even tempted.”

Greg laughed and kissed his temple.

“You smiled,” Mycroft said, his voice almost distant as he recalled everything. “As though you were seeing how far you could push. Whether you were putting your toes over the line with me. And your sock had a hole in it.”

Greg smiled and stroked his fingers.

“Greg?”

“Yeah?”

“I would very much like it if you… if it were hard and fast. If you could just make it quiet.”

Greg caught his breath. “Really?”

“Sex with you turns the noise off, and makes it all still. But my head… I’m almost overwhelmed I need… I need you.”

“You’ve got me,” Greg whispered against his ear. “Need to know though… I mean, I want to talk this through, just quickly first. I don’t want to get it wrong.”

“You may choose any position you like. Pin my hands down. If you leave a mark, I wouldn’t mind. If you could have me, and afterwards, lie with me, I would like that.”

“You got it.” Greg pressed his lips together. Hard, fast, take. “Get out of the bath,” he said, his tone more commanding than he usually would be.

Mycroft did so without a question. He stood on the rug, water trickling down his body, his eyes fixed on Greg’s.

“You’re beautiful,” Greg whispered, looking down his chest, the fine trail of hair down the centre of it, down to his stomach, and to where his cock hung, half hard. His legs. Gorgeous legs. “Dry yourself.”

Mycroft turned and got a towel, giving Greg a good look at his arse. And his back. Greg stood up, walking towards him and picking up a towel, using it to dry Mycroft’s back while he dried his front.

Greg kissed one of his scars. “Turn around,” he said.

Mycroft did so, wrapping a towel around his waist. Greg kissed him then, holding his head in his hands and trying to convey every heartfelt emotion and his longing for him all at once. Mycroft’s arms were around his waist, as their mouths fought and then withdrew, hard, desperate kisses drifting into loving, lingering ones.

Greg was lost in him. He knew he would stay here all night and all of the next day if Mycroft asked it of him. They walked back to the bedroom together, kissing and touching.

“Get on your stomach on the bed,” Greg said, rubbing his cold arms and wiping away the last of the water.

He watched Mycroft do as instructed, looking around at Greg from over his shoulder.

Greg straddled his hips, scraping his nails down Mycroft’s back, not hard enough to leave any traces behind.

Mycroft writhed beneath him, his fingers curling in the sheets. Greg opened one of the drawers and retrieved the lubricant, slicking his fingers quickly.

Mycroft seemed almost undone already, and as Greg reached behind him to press a finger into his lover, he found it slid in easily, Mycroft relaxed and open beneath him. A second finger swiftly followed.

Mycroft was gasping, and Greg fucked him with his fingers, spreading them a little and then curling them and pressing the tips against his spot.

Greg ached for him, desperate to be inside him. He leaned down, so his lips were almost touching Mycroft’s ear. “I want you so much,” he whispered, and Mycroft let out a quiet whimper, a sound Greg had never heard him make before.

“Please,” Mycroft said quietly, and his muscles clenched and relaxed around Greg’s fingers.

“You want me?” Greg asked.

“Need you,” Mycroft said. “I can’t… Greg, please.”

Greg grabbed the lube. He pressed a reassuring hand to Mycroft’s lower back when he saw the other man shake a little.

“I’ve got you,” Greg said. He leaned for the drawer again and Mycroft reached out and grabbed his wrist. Greg frowned. “You alright?”

“I’m clean,” Mycroft said, his voice quiet, almost nervous. “If you want… if you don’t, then no matter, it’s only a passing thought and I…”

“You want me to…” Greg stared at him. “You want me to without a condom?”

“If you… I only mean…”

“Yes,” Greg breathed out. “God, yes, Mycroft.”

He carefully pulled out his fingers and slicked his cock, pushing into his hand.

He looked down at where Mycroft lay, a line of sweat down his spine. Greg kissed the back of his neck.

“Get on your hands and knees for me,” he said.

Mycroft did so, but he seemed unsteady on his arms.

“Hold onto the headboard,” Greg said. “Up on your knees. That’s the way.”

He knelt between Mycroft’s legs, peppering his neck with delicate kisses as he rubbed the head of his cock against Mycroft’s hole. He shuddered. He held Mycroft’s hip with his other hand as he slowly pressed in.

He dropped his forehead to the back of Mycroft’s back, overwhelmed and overawed. He was so tight, so hot, and Greg had to give himself a few seconds to calm down.

“Please,” Mycroft whispered again.

Greg held onto his hips, digging in his fingers, just a little, as he began to thrust into him. Mycroft groaned with every rock of Greg’s hips. Greg pounded into him.

He didn’t hold back.

He wrapped one arm around Mycroft’s body, stroking his cock to match every movement.

Both of them were crying out, their moans echoing around the room. Greg bit Mycroft’s neck. He drove into him, looking down to watch his cock sliding in and out of his body. He had to look away after a few seconds, because he was so, so close.

He squeezed Mycroft’s cock. He sucked a mark onto the back of Mycroft’s neck. Mycroft stilled and then trembled as he came over Greg’s hand.

Greg joined him, emptying himself inside and gasping his name and pressing open mouthed, wet kisses to Mycroft’s back. “I love you, I love you, I love you,” Greg was whispering, but he was hardly conscious of it as he pulled their bodies tight together.

Mycroft was shaking, and Greg held him. He carefully eased out, rubbing Mycroft’s hot back, and rubbing his shoulders.

“I’ve got you, I’ve got you,” Greg said, and Mycroft let go of the headboard, slumping down.

Greg pulled him close and kissed all over his face, pushing back a strand of hair from his sweat-covered forehead. They exchanged a chaste kiss between their heavy breathing.

“Alright?” Greg whispered, pressing their foreheads together.

Mycroft nodded, holding onto him.

After they each used the bathroom, they lay on their backs in the dark, just their shoulders and feet touching.

Greg yawned, closing his eyes.

“Greg?” Mycroft said, his voice quiet.

“Yeah?”

“I never did that before.”

“Did what?”

“Without protection.”

Greg nodded, and touched Mycroft’s hand. “I know.”

“Sleep well, Greg.”

“You too,” Greg said as he rolled over to kiss Mycroft’s forehead. He lay back down on his back and Mycroft curled up on his side beside him, sharing the same pillow.

 

* * *

 

London was the same as it always was.

That shouldn’t have been a surprise, but what was a surprise was how quickly that perfect week felt like a dream.

Greg found the Jamall Milone files and gave them to Mycroft to look over.

The first few nights sleeping alone in his flat were strange, while Mycroft had to work long hours to catch-up on his own work.

They very quickly fell back into a routine of seeing each other on the weekends, cooking each other dinner or cooking together and watching films and talking about their work.

 

* * *

 

It was on a Friday night when Mycroft handed Greg back the Jamall Milone files. Greg bit his lip. “What’s the verdict?” he asked.

“There is nothing you could have done,” Mycroft told him. “You didn’t miss a thing. There was simply no evidence. And that is not your fault.”

Greg nodded. It felt like a weight had been lifted from his shoulders.

He took the files down to the Yard’s archives the next day. It went in a drawer for unsolved cases, but Greg was safe in the knowledge there was nothing more he could have done.

It was time to let go.

 

* * *

 

_April, 2012_

His phone rang half way through his lunch at his desk and Greg picked it up. “Lestrade.”

“Hello, it’s Amy on the reception desk here. We have a young gentleman who says he’s here to see you.”

“Young gentleman?”

“His name is Dion Martin.”

Greg frowned. Dion Martin? Somewhere that name rung a bell, but he couldn’t place it. “Yeah, go on,” Greg said. “Bring him through to my office.”

“Right you are, sir.”

Amy hung up and Greg cleared some papers off his desk. He poured some of his glass of water into the venus fly trap pot. He looked up as Amy showed a tall man - at least six foot - into Greg’s office. He looked like a teenager but he was dressed in a smart suit.

“Detective Inspector,” the teen smiled, shuffling his feet.

“Yeah,” Greg said, frowning a bit. “Cheers, Amy, I’ll take it from here.”

She nodded and closed the door.

“You don’t remember me,” Dion said.

“Should I?”

Dion smiled and shook his head. “No, not really. It was five years ago. I was 14 years old, came in and told you and the Sergeant that I killed my step-dad.”

Greg stared at him. Dion Martin. Holy fuck. Yeah, he remembered. He’d stabbed his abusive step-dad after he had attacked his mum. Went to prison, but Greg remembered Mycroft had sorted him a good lawyer and he had got a couple of years in prison but not too many.

Greg remembered he had been intelligent. They had talked about football and something to do with cars…

“No… seriously?” Greg asked.

“Yeah.”

“I don’t believe it.” Greg began to grin. “What are you doing here? How are you?”

“Good, cheers. I wanted to come and see you when I got out of prison two years ago. But I wanted to do something right first.”

“What was that?” Greg asked him. “Hang on, take a seat. You want a drink or something?”

“Cup of tea would be great,” Dion said.

Greg grinned and poured them both a drink before sitting down opposite him.

“I run a garage,” Dion said.

“You run a garage? Your own garage?”

“Yeah. I set up a project for young offenders to come and get some training. I did it because you told me not to screw my life up. And I owe you for that.”

Greg stared at him. “Mate, you don’t owe me anything.”

“I do. I owe you a heap of stuff. ‘Cause when stuff got bad in prison, and it did, I remembered what you said and I kept my head down and I did my GCSEs then I did a mechanics course. I had to do it from books first. Murderers aren’t supposed to have access to tools.” Dion grinned, sipping his tea. “But eventually… well, they let me learn. And then I got out and got a job in a supermarket. And I kept learning and I got a grant and I set up the garage.”

Greg shook his head. “I can’t believe that. That’s bloody fantastic. I’m. I’m so proud of you.”

“I’m grateful, Inspector. I wouldn’t have done it without what you said.”

Greg held his hands up and shook his head. “You would have done.”

“No. Really. I’ve got a kid.”

“A kid?”

“Little girl, she’s six months old. Called Grace. I couldn’t exactly call her Greg, so Grace was the next best thing.”

Greg sat back in his chair. He hadn’t realised how badly his hands were shaking. “You… you named your kid. After me?”

“Yeah. Like I said. Owe you my life.”

“You were just 14,” Greg said softly.

“I know. I was freaking out a lot. But you made me feel better about it all. Made me think turning myself in was the right thing to do.”

“I knew you were a bright kid but… prison kills kids like you,” Greg said, more to himself than anything else.

“So I did? I made you proud, right?”

Greg beamed at him. “A million times over, mate. A million times. You got a picture of your little girl there?”

“Yeah.” He grinned and handed Greg his phone. Greg stared at the picture, delighted.

“She is beautiful. I can’t believe…” Greg smiled and shook his head. “You will never know how grateful I am you came by here today.”

“You’ll never know how grateful I am you’re the one who arrested me.”

Greg and Dion both stood up. Greg held his hand out and they shook hands, both smiling.

“Look after your little girl, won’t you?” Greg said.

“Oh, I will. She’s my world. I’ll keep making you proud, Inspector. Next time I come round here, I’m going to have another garage and give more kids like me a job. And I promise that.”

“I don’t doubt it for a single second.” Greg smiled at him. “Keep in touch, yeah? You got a card? Next time I need my car servicing, I’ll come over.”

Dion smiled and took one out of his wallet. Greg handed him his own card in return. “How’s your mum?” Greg asked.

“She’s got a really nice boyfriend,” Dion said. “We got through it.”

Greg nodded. “You take care, Dion.”

“You too.” Dion smiled and walked back out of the office.

Greg sat back down, staring at the business card in his hands. So Dion had really done it. And he thanked Greg for it. That was…

Greg looked up as Sally walked in, frowning. “I thought I recognised him,” she said. “Who was it?”

“That was Dion Martin. 14-year-old who stabbed and killed his step-dad.”

“Holy crap,” she said.

Greg shook his head in numb disbelief. “He named his kid after me. Said he wanted to make me proud.”

Sally shook her head. “I remember him,” she said, beginning to smile. “You were so good with him.”

“He was just 14.”

“I remember.”

“He runs a garage, Sal. He runs a garage where he trains young offenders to fix cars.”

Her smile fell in an instant. “I am so sorry, Greg.”

“What?”

“Everything. All that stuff…” she shook her head.

Greg pointed at her. “No, don’t.”

“Sherlock-”

“Don’t, Sal. It’s alright.” Greg stood up and walked around the desk. She was looking at him with desperately sad eyes. Without another thought, Greg wrapped his arms around her. “I have never blamed you turning me in. You were right, Sal. You were always right, we shouldn’t have done it.”

“You deserved better than-”

“No,” Greg cut her off as she began to hug him back. “Don’t.”

“You saved that kid’s life. And if you’d never got your job back…” Her voice shook.

“Don’t do that, Sally. Don’t beat yourself up.”

“It’s my fault.”

“No. No, it’s none of our faults. Alright?” He pulled back and looked at her, his hands on her shoulders. “You hear me? You listening?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s alright, Sally. It’s alright.”

She stared at him. “I am so sorry,” she said again.

“Want to get a drink after work?” Greg asked.

She nodded. “Yeah, yeah, please.” She wiped her eyes and walked out.

 

* * *

 

Later that evening, they found themselves in the pub near the Yard, sitting with a beer each. Once the discussions of some of their cases were out of the way, they took a few moments of silence.

“So, how you been?” Sally asked. “Holiday good?”

“It was amazing,” Greg said. “Just what I needed.”

“You do seem a lot more refreshed,” Sally said. “A lot happier.”

“I am.”

“How long have you… you and Mycroft Holmes?”

“Just a couple of months.”

Sally nodded. “And you’re both happy?”

“Really happy,” Greg told her. “He’s the best thing that ever happened to me.”

She smiled, drinking her beer.

“How’s Sam?” Greg asked.

“Really good. We’re moving in together. He’s loving the music stuff and they’re actually doing really well.”

“Yeah, he sent me one of their songs the other day. Sounded good.”

“He’s thinking about having a get together for his birthday. Or something. He’s organising it, but you know Sam, it’ll all be sorted really last minute.”

Greg laughed. “Sounds about right.”

“You and Mycroft. You should come.”

“Not sure it’ll be his scene, but I’ll be there.”

Sally nodded. “I’m really sorry I’ve been off with you. I just. I’ve been really finding it hard. I just blame myself so much for what happened to Sherlock and I knew you blamed me too and…”

Greg touched her arm. “It’s alright, Sal. I forgive you.”

“Mycroft Holmes he… when he came to see if you could have a week off, he got up to leave and he looked at me and he said… he said ‘it’s not your fault. You really must stop blaming yourself’.”

Greg stared at her. “He did that?”

She nodded. “Yeah. I was so shocked, I didn’t know what to say. But… it was such a relief, to hear that. I was a bit worried about you when I realised you were together. Because he hurt you last time. But… he seems to love you so much.”

Greg smiled. “He does.”

“I want to be friends,” Sally said, biting her lip. “Can we… try and do that?”

Greg nodded. “I’d like that. I’d really like that.”

 

* * *

 

When Greg saw Mycroft the next day, he gave him the most loving, adoring, perfect kiss he could muster. He didn’t tell Mycroft it was because of what he’d said to Sally. But he had to thank him.

They sat on Greg’s sofa, both working and making each other drinks.

And as Mycroft sat, reading something, Greg glanced at him. He really was the love of his life. 


	57. No Good Goodbyes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to commenting people. I was stunned by the response to the last chapter. Thank you cltc75, KingTaran, Abbennett, roosickle, Noctivaga, MoonRiver, Jaeh, psychicdreams, JustLookFrightenedAndScuttle, TheBluestBlue, artemisdecibal, vanya, WhiskeySally, CommunionNimrod, ladyxdarcy, Mice, UnicornSoulHunter, fayetree, Maliciouspixie5, Casandra12, gngrxx, Copgirl1964, sherl_jawn and Per_Solem.

_May, 2012_

Murderers seemed to be favouring May. It was warmer, so it seemed passions were rising. And not the good sort of passion.

Greg had barely seen Mycroft in two weeks, and rather unusually, it was because he was the busy one. They spoke on the phone most nights, sometimes for half an hour, but sometimes just for five minutes to update each other on their day.

There was no pressure to call. It wasn’t like they had to do it. But they fell into the rhythm.

But despite all that, when they finally found themselves curled up around each other on the sofa kissing, Greg was acutely aware of what they had been missing out on. There was nothing hurried about it, no ultimate aim or destination.

They just kissed.

Reminders of taste, that faint bitter hint of cigarette and coffee. The familiar smell of Mycroft’s aftershave mixed with the refreshing washing power of his jacket. And those wonderful kissing sounds and sighs, as Greg stroked his fingers through soft hair, felt his tie and touched the side of his neck.

Greg’s lips tender, he smiled lazily, leaning to the side to rest his head against Mycroft’s chest. He glanced at the TV. “When did that film end?” he asked, frowning.

“About 10 minutes ago,” Mycroft told him, stroking his side. “Do you want to go to Paris?”

“Paris?”

“I have a meeting next weekend. But I thought perhaps we could make a long weekend of it, since it won’t take more than a few hours. Anthea has offered us her flat there, if we want to stay.”

“I’d love to go to Paris,” Greg said, smiling up at him. “I’ve still got loads of holiday to take. Oh wait. I can’t visit France without seeing dad. I’m overdue a visit.”

“Is that a problem?”

“No, not a problem. I want to see him. But… well, I guess I need to come out, don’t I? How did you come out to your parents?”

“I didn’t have to. Sherlock did it for me.”

Greg snorted. “Ah right. Sounds about right. Ah, bugger. Dad’s not going to take it well.”

“Will he not?” Mycroft asked, reaching for the remote and flicking through the channels before turning the television off.

“Doubt it,” Greg said, shrugging. “I dunno. I’ve never needed to talk about it with him. How did your parents take it?”

“Better than Sherlock expected them to. My mother just said to find someone who would make me happy.”

Greg grinned and kissed his chin. “Bugger,” he said again. “I can’t just turn up with you out of the blue, can I? I mean, assuming you want to meet him.”

“If you want me to,” Mycroft said.

“Damn. I’ll call him tomorrow. I don’t even know how you even think about coming out. Sherlock did it for me too with everyone at work. And he told Jane. And I was pissed when I told Sally.”

Mycroft chuckled. “It seems that was one of his talents.”

Greg smiled wistfully. Sherlock. It still made his chest tighten to think about him, but it was with a lot of affection in his heart. He was too young to die. Far too young.

Just as his thoughts were running away with him, a despondency crawling into his veins, Mycroft kissed his temple.

“Shh,” Mycroft whispered. “He knew you loved him.”

Greg nodded, taking hold of one of Mycroft’s hands. “Sometimes it…” He bit his lip.

“I know.”

“It’s been nearly a year, Mycroft,” Greg whispered. “Nearly a year. How the hell has it been nearly a year?”

“I don’t know.”

Greg shook his head and rubbed his face. “And I still haven’t heard from the bloody Attorney General’s office. I sent three emails asking for at least a reply. Nothing.”

“Nothing at all?”

“Not even a confirmation it had been received. What will he get? An official pardon or something?”

“I don’t know what we can hope for,” Mycroft said. “Since 1945, there have only been three high-profile pardons given in England and Wales. They fall under the Queen’s prerogative powers of mercy.”

“Who were they?” Greg asked.

“Timothy Evans, who was hanged for killing his wife and daughter. Another man later confessed to their murders, and that of many others. Derek Bentley, of low IQ and hanged for being party to the murder of a police officer, who was killed by 16-year-old Christopher Craig. He was hanged in 1953, and pardoned in 1998. And finally Michael Shields, accused of attempted murder in Bulgaria. The reason for his pardon in 2009 was never given by the Home Secretary.”

“And Sherlock Holmes,” Greg said. “Accused of an unknown number of murders.”

“But he was never convicted in court,” Mycroft said. “How can the Queen pardon a man who was never tried?”

Greg felt his heart sink. “So what are we doing?”

“We’re challenging the conclusions reached at the inquest into his death.”

“That’s not good enough,” Greg said tightly.

“We might not have a choice. Greg, there will be incredible media attention when this happens. Everyone will know the truth.”

“What if the media don’t give a fuck? What if it takes another year? Two more years? Will they even care then? He’ll be old news.”

He felt Mycroft’s lips press to his forehead. They sat in silence for a few minutes before Mycroft spoke. “We have to do this, Greg. We don’t have a choice.”

Greg looked at him. “We don’t?”

“No.”

“But… why? What’s it for?”

“It’s for Sherlock,” Mycroft said quietly.

Greg nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, you’re right. It’s for Sherlock.”

He let Mycroft wrap his arms around him as they adjusted their positions to stretch along the sofa.

“You’re really going to tell your father about us then?” Mycroft asked.

Greg nodded. “Yep. Tomorrow. I just need to work out how to explain it. I’ll figure it out. It’ll be fine.”

Which was how, the very next day, he found himself on Mycroft’s sofa, dialling Christophe Lestrade’s number. “Dad,” he said.

“Greg, how are you?”

“Good, cheers. You?”

“Yes, very well,” his father replied. “As is Rosa. The farm is going along nicely.”

“That’s great,” Greg said. He bit his lip and looked over to where Mycroft was preparing their dinner in the kitchen. “I’m going to Paris for a few days and thought I’d come by the farm beforehand. Is that alright?”

“Of course, you’re always welcome. What are you doing in Paris?”

Greg rubbed his face. “Me and my… partner. We thought we’d take a couple of days off.”

“You’re with someone?” his dad asked.

“Yeah, yeah, I am.”

“How wonderful,” his dad said. “How long?”

“It’s just a few months.”

“I can’t wait to meet her.”

Greg pulled a face. “Mmm. Yeah. About that.”

“Yes?”

Greg took a deep breath. “Dad, I’ve always been bisexual and I’m seeing a bloke,” he said quickly. He gripped the phone and listened to the silence. “Dad?”

“Yes.”

“You alright there?”

“A man.”

“Yes.”

“Your… partner. Is a man.”

“Yup,” Greg confirmed, biting his lip.

“This is… most surprising.”

Greg snorted. “Yeah, I guess for you it is. It’s not the first bloke I’ve been with.”

“I see.”

“Look, I know it’s a lot to-”

“-Does… does he… make you happy?”

“Yeah.” Greg looked up to where Mycroft was bringing their coffees through. “Yeah, so much.”

“I see. Well. If you and your…” He trailed off.

“My partner,” Greg finished for him. “Called Mycroft.”

“Mycroft? What sort of name is Mycroft?”

Greg laughed. “Yeah, I know.”

Mycroft took a seat beside him and smiled. Greg smiled back and blew him a silent kiss.

He heard his dad sigh. “I’m not sure how comfortable I feel about the two of you sleeping in the same room. It’s… well, not exactly… what will the neighbours say?”

Greg rolled his eyes. “They won’t even know. You live in the middle of no where. Dad. Come on. We’re both too old to be talking about it like I’m 16 and not old enough to make my own decisions. I met someone, I fell in love, I want you to meet him. You don’t have to like it. You don’t even have to like him. But can you please just give it a chance?”

His dad sighed. “Of course. Of course. It’s… a lot to take in.”

“I know.”

“I’ll see you - both of you - in a few days then.”

“Cheers dad.”

“Goodnight, Greg.”

“Night.” Greg hung up. Mycroft raised his eyebrows and Greg shrugged. “Could have gone worse.”

“Are you okay?” Mycroft asked.

“Yeah, I’m fine. He’ll be fine too when he gets over it.” Greg sipped his coffee, frowning to himself.

 

* * *

 

They were dropped off at the farm by Mycroft's driver at 4.47pm the following Friday. Greg carried their suitcases up the path leading to the farmhouse while Mycroft walked behind him, observing.

Greg stopped at the door, putting the bags down on the path. He looked back at Mycroft. “Can’t believe I’m doing this,” he said.

Mycroft rubbed his shoulder. “It’s just one night. And I’m sure they’ll be fine. You should knock now.”

Greg rolled his eyes, but laughed as he tapped the door. It was – gratefully – Rosa who answered the door.

“Greg,” she beamed, stepping aside to let him in. “Oh, it’s so good to see you. Come in.” She looked at Mycroft and held her hand out. “Rosa,” she said.

Mycroft took her hand and shook it. “Mycroft Holmes,” he said. “Thank you for inviting me.”

“Oh, any friend of Greg’s,” she said. “Drinks?”

“Coffee for me,” Greg said.

“Tea would be wonderful, thank you,” Mycroft added.

Rosa smiled and walked to the kitchen. “Your father’s in the lounge.”

Greg nodded, took a deep breath and walked through.

Christophe stood up when Greg entered, smiling at him. He looked more worn out than the last time Greg had seen him. Shaky on his legs, and thinner. “Greg.” He looked at Mycroft, his expression remaining the same, but Greg saw the hesitant edge to it.

“Mycroft Holmes,” Mycroft told him, bowing his head just a little. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Christophe nodded, but didn’t offer his hand to shake. ”And yourself. I haven’t heard very much about you, what is it that you do?”

“A minor position in the Department for Transport,” Mycroft said.

Christophe sat down, and Greg took that as an invitation to do the same. Mycroft took a seat beside him on the sofa.

“It’s a charming house,” Mycroft said, smiling as Rosa brought him a tea. “Thank you.”

Rosa looked at Christophe. “Oh, someone could cut a knife through the tension in here,” she said, and she passed Greg’s dad a drink, looking at him. “Will you please stop intimidating the poor man?” she asked Christophe, her hands on her hips.

Greg laughed. “We’re fine,” he told her.

“Perhaps you are,” Rosa said. “But I will not have your father’s judgemental attitude while you are in this house.”

Greg sighed, sitting back in the chair. “Look, you might as well ask anything you want and we’ll get it out of the way.”

“How long have you been together?” his dad asked.

“Five months. And a year, five years ago.”

His dad raised his eyebrows. “Why did you break up?”

“There were good reasons,” was all Greg said.

“And how did it happen for a second time?”

Greg shrugged. “Still loved each other.”

“What about poor Jane?”

“She’s fine,” Greg said. “She knew about Mycroft.”

“And your job is… secure, despite your relationship status?”

Greg snorted. “People don’t care about me seeing a bloke, if that’s what you mean. Some of them have even met him.”

“They don’t mind, in your line of work?”

“No, dad. They really don’t.”

“Are you sure? After everything that happened last year, you can hardly afford to… make a scene.”

Greg rolled his eyes. “I’m not making a scene, for God’s sake. I’m in a relationship.”

“Where do you live, dear?” Rosa asked Mycroft, cutting in.

“In Pall Mall,” Mycroft said.

“What a wonderful part of London.”

“Are you from the Midi-Pyrenees region?” Mycroft asked her.

“Yes,” Rosa said with a smile.

“One English parent, another…” Mycroft frowned. “Perhaps Canadian?”

Rosa stared at him. “How on earth did you know?”

“Your accent. I can hear the variations.” Mycroft delivered a sentence in French, and then spoke it again, changing how he said it just a fraction. Christophe was watching him with a frown while Rosa looked delighted.

She spoke back to him in French, until they were having a fast-paced conversation. Greg was watching Mycroft with an adoring smile, completely forgetting anyone else was in the room. Greg’s dad spoke then, delivering one sharp question in Mycroft’s direction in French. Greg rolled his eyes. Way to cut him out of the conversation. He was pretty sure his dad said the word ‘intention’ but he wasn’t certain.

Mycroft turned to Greg’s dad, lifting his chin just a little. He spoke softly, holding Christophe’s gaze. Greg heard his name once, but he sat back in the chair, sighing. He saw his dad nod once.

“Very well,” Christophe murmured.

“There aren’t any doubts,” Mycroft said. “It’s all very simple.”

Rosa smiled. “That’s wonderful,” she said.

“Anyone going to tell me what just happened?” Greg asked.

“You should have paid more attention to your French lessons,” his dad said, but his tone had softened, his eyes glowing with some affection.

Greg snorted. “It was boring. I preferred to play football.” Mycroft chuckled. Greg turned to him. “You’re telling me later,” he said.

Mycroft smiled at him. “Shall I teach you French?”

“I wouldn’t mind that,” Greg admitted. “Except for the part when I have to learn. I could listen.”

Mycroft playfully rolled his eyes. “You’re terrible,” he said, picking up his tea and drinking. Greg grinned and placed his hand on his knee, giving it one quick squeeze. He let go and drank his own drink.

Greg looked down as a fluffy ginger cat walked in, eyeing them all with a disparaging gaze.

Rosa sighed. “Silly cat,” she said. “It turned up about a month ago. He won’t go away, but he despises everyone and everything.”

But then the cat rubbed against Mycroft’s legs. Mycroft narrowed his eyes, looking down at it. The cat stared up at him. Greg watched Mycroft. Then the cat leaped up onto the sofa. It and Mycroft held each other’s eyes, Mycroft frowning, and then the cat walked onto his lap, kneading him a few times before settling onto him.

Rosa was staring at him. Mycroft petted the cat awkwardly. “He’s going to get fur all over my suit,” he murmured. “I had intended to wear this tie to meet the French delegation.”

Greg laughed. “We’ll wash it at the flat.”

“Greg?” Mycroft said, disgruntled. “Why is there a cat on my lap?”

“That cat hates everyone,” Rosa said, laughing. “What on earth did you do to make it like you so much?”

“I have no idea,” Mycroft said, but he stroked behind its ears.

Greg glanced up at his dad. He was watching them with some interest. Christophe nodded to him, the closest to approval Greg thought he was ever going to get.

Greg mouthed a ‘thank you’ and reached out to touch the cat. It hissed at him and he hastily pulled his hand back. Mycroft chuckled and stroked it and it began to purr.

“You’re not getting a cat,” Greg said, grinning. “I’m not sharing you with a cat.”

Mycroft smiled at him and Greg smiled back. “Rosa,” Mycroft said. “I would love to see the rest of the farm, would you do me the honours?”

“I would love to,” she said, standing. “Follow me, dear.” Mycroft squeezed Greg’s shoulder and pushed the cat off his lap before getting up. He followed Rosa out of the room, the cat close to his heels.

“So,” Greg said, looking over at his dad.

“Cigarettes and a drink by the lake?” his dad asked.

Greg nodded. Christophe poured them each a whiskey and Greg took them outside while his dad relied heavily on a walking stick. Greg carried some seats over and they sat in silence for a few minutes, watching Rosa lead Mycroft down the garden.

“He’s a very intriguing fellow,” Greg’s dad said.

“Yeah, I guess he is.”

“Rosa’s completely charmed.”

“He does that," Greg nodded.

“What was it he does again?”

“Small role in the Department for Transport,” Greg told him.

“I see.”

They were silent for a while. Mycroft looked down the garden from where he was talking to Rosa. Greg caught his eye and smiled at him. Mycroft smiled back before returning to his conversation.

“How long has he been in love with you?” Christophe asked.

“About six years.”

“I thought as much. He doesn’t look at you like someone who’s only just getting to know you.”

Greg just nodded.

“Reserved man, isn’t he?” Christophe continued. “Doesn’t give much away. It’s different when he looks at you.”

“You’re not the first person to say that,” Greg said.

“Look, I am a bit homophobic,” his dad said. “I’m an old man. It’s a lot to get used to when you grow up believing one thing. But I promise, by the next time I see you both, Rosa will have talked it out of me.”

Greg smiled. “It’s alright. I knew you might have a hard time. But you haven’t disowned me, which is good.”

“I’ll never disown you. All I want – all I’ve ever wanted – is for you to be happy. It’s taken a while, but I think we might have finally got there. It is a little odd for me to think that your home is with another man, but I’ve never seen you look so carefree before. And he lights up just the same when he looks at you. I’ve never seen another person look at anyone the way he does at you. All I can think is, that’s how I used to look at your mother.”

Greg smiled, looking out across the lake. Mycroft had bent over to stroke the ginger cat which had barely left his side.

“He would move heaven and earth for you, Greg,” Christophe continued, his voice low. “Anyone can see it. He hides himself well behind that suit of his. But there is no doubt in my mind that he would do anything for you.”

Greg nodded. “So would I,” he said, watching as Mycroft and Rosa made their way back around to them. He smiled at Mycroft. “Nice walk?”

“Very good,” Mycroft agreed, walking behind him and resting a hand on Greg’s shoulder. “The cat keeps following me.”

Greg laughed. “Don’t know what it’s going to do when it doesn’t have you to stalk.”

Mycroft smiled and pulled a chair up beside Greg’s, though he reached out to rest his hand on Greg’s arm.

“I’ll check on dinner,” Rosa said, beaming at them and walking back to the house.

“What did you do for a living Mr Lestrade?” Mycroft asked.

“I ran an accountancy firm. Only a small one in London, but I was there for a long time.”

“Where did you meet Rosa?”

“At a village dance. There was wine everywhere. I gave her plenty of reasons not to bother with me, but she’s the stubborn sort. Where are you from originally, Mycroft?”

“My family had a home close to Oxford. We moved to Gloucester when I was 14, somewhere in the countryside.”

“So you’re used to village living?”

“Far more used to city living,” Mycroft said. “I made a home at Oxford while at university and then I moved to London soon after. I lived in Washington for 10 months as well.”

“In America?”

“I used to travel a lot,” Mycroft said. Greg made a mental note to ask about his time in Washington.

“When did you learn French?” Greg’s dad asked.

“I learnt it very young.”

“How many languages do you speak?” Greg asked him.

“Fourteen. Although my Mandarin is not what it used to be.”

“What are they?”

“Mandarin Chinese, English, Spanish, French, Hindi, Russian, Portuguese, Japanese, German, Urdu, Korean, Ukrainian, Cantonese and Italian.”

“Jesus,” Greg muttered, not sure how he’d known Mycroft so long without knowing all that. Even his dad looked impressed.

“I also know sign language. I suppose I should have included that.”

“Good heavens,” Greg’s dad murmured, shaking his head. “Greg. How is Jane?”

“She’s good. I heard from her about a month ago, really briefly. And she’s fine.”

“Thought anymore about finding out about your birth parents?”

Greg rolled his eyes and tipped his head back. So, it hadn’t taken long to get to that. “Really? Why do you always ask?”

“I’m curious.”

Greg sighed. “As a matter of fact, yeah. I do know some things.” Mycroft reached for his hand and entwined their fingers. “They’re both dead.”

“I’m sorry,” Christophe said.

“My name’s… Uh. Greg Knight. Mum was called Connie. And the bloke… shit, I can’t even remember.”

“Jerry,” Mycroft murmured.

“Right,” Greg said. “Well, he was a criminal apparently. And she was killed two days after giving evidence against him. So all in all, not a great lot.”

“When did you find out?”

“A few years ago. I asked Mycroft to research it.”

Christophe nodded, lighting up a cigarette and offering the packet to Greg. Greg took one and lit it. He shared that same cigarette with Mycroft.

“So, why were you left in a hospital?” Christophe asked.

“Um.” Greg frowned. God, he really didn’t want to go into this.

“I believe Connie Knight took him there because she was concerned about his safety,” Mycroft said. “By all accounts, she seems to have been a fine woman.”

Greg’s dad smiled. “Must be genetic then, yes, Greg?”

Greg managed a smile back. “I dunno. Cheers though.”

“A criminal?” Christophe asked. “What on earth did he do?”

Greg glanced at Mycroft, silently willing him to speak instead.

“He was involved in a crime syndicate in the East End of London,” Mycroft explained, handing Greg back the cigarette and squeezing his hand.

“Any connection with the Krays?” Greg's dad asked. 

“Not as far as I could tell,” Mycroft said. “That’s not to say their paths never crossed. But it appears Jerry was involved in a far less sophisticated operation.” Greg looked down at his knees. “My apologies,” Mycroft murmured to him.

Greg shook his head. “No, it’s fine. I’ve just never looked at it, that’s all. What did he get convicted for?”

“Attempted murder and robbery.”

“Bloody hell,” Greg whispered. He stood up and stamped out his cigarette. “Sorry, I’m just gonna…” He squeezed Mycroft’s shoulder and let go of his hand, wandering slowly back to the house. He found Rosa carving a chicken in the kitchen.

He leaned against the counter, watching her.

“Mycroft is a wonderful man, dear,” Rosa said. “Your father will realise in time. I’m quite smitten. Oh, if I were younger and he wasn’t gay…” Greg managed a smile, sitting down at the table. Rosa turned to look at him. “Are you alright?” she asked.

Greg nodded. “I’m fine.”

“Your father demanding answers to everything again? He really ought not to be so abrupt. It’s his knee, it makes him so awfully morose.”

“Is he alright?” Greg asked.

Rosa sighed. “He’s okay, lovey. Less able to get about and it bothers him. Not that he’d ever let on. He’s a proud, stubborn so and so.”

Greg nodded. “Yeah.”

Rosa studied him. “I know the two of you have a difficult relationship. But he does so love you.”

“I know.”

“He is so very proud of you too. I hope you know that. He talks of you often, down at the village lunches.”

Greg smiled. “That’s nice.”

“He’ll be happier now. Knowing you’re doing so well and with such a wonderful person. Don’t you worry that he cares that you’re gay. He’s accepting it slowly, having met Mycroft for himself and found how much he adores you.”

Greg didn’t even bother correcting her to say he was actually bisexual, as Greg’s father shuffled in with his walking stick and wandered straight through to the dining room. Rosa smiled. “I think that’s a hint that your father’s hungry.”

She picked up some plates and carried them through. Mycroft walked up behind Greg and kissed the top of his head. “I’m sorry,” he murmured.

Greg looked up at him. “I’m not upset. Promise.”

Mycroft leaned down and kissed him. Greg smiled and reached up to touch his cheek. “What d’you reckon?”

“They’re good people,” he said. “We should help with the dishes.”

Greg nodded and stood up. He rested his hands on Mycroft’s hips. “Maybe we can look through that folder on my birth parents together some time?” he asked.

Mycroft nodded and kissed his forehead. “When you’re ready.”

Greg smiled as Rosa returned and the three of them carried the dishes out to the table.

Mycroft and Christophe discussed French politics and strike action over dinner. Rosa occasionally mentioned how it wasn’t really a light conversation to have over roast chicken, but Greg’s dad seemed to be thoroughly enjoying the debate.

Greg couldn’t add much, but he sat and listened. He was sat opposite Mycroft and it gave him the perfect excuse to watch him as he got animated, weighing up the pros and cons of the French system of Government.

After dinner and trifle (of which Christophe ate very little of either), Greg and Mycroft went up to bed. They undressed to their boxers, getting in under the yellow floral duvet. Greg turned the TV on, and Mycroft translated the news for him.

“So, what did my dad tell you?” Greg asked as Mycroft turned the volume down.

“He asked what my intentions were.”

Greg snorted. “Really? What did you say?”

“That it was to spend the rest of my life with you, if you’ll have me that long.”

Greg swallowed. “Oh.” He lay down onto his back and Mycroft shuffled down with him, resting his head on Greg’s chest. Greg stroked his hair, leaning down to brush his lips against his head. He didn’t think he’d ever get over how easy Mycroft was with his affection.

He could be so aloof with others. But with Greg, he stayed close. Even when they weren’t touching at all, they would sit together on the sofa, join each other in the kitchen…

“How often were you here when you were younger?” Mycroft asked him.

“Couple of times a year. Sometimes at Christmas and during the summer. We used to come here for holidays and stuff.”

“Did you like it?”

“It was alright. Too quiet for me really. But dad loves it here. Mum always loved London.”

Mycroft nodded.

Greg bit his lip. “Sit up, love,” he said.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Mycroft freeze. Greg winced and glanced down him as he realised what he’d just called him. “Sorry, not a good thing to say?”

“No, I liked it,” Mycroft said, his voice surprised. “I’ve just never…”

“No one’s ever called you that before, right?”

“Correct.”

“It just sort of came out,” Greg told him.

“Well, if you’re amenable, it can… come out more often. If you wish.”

Greg smiled. “Sit up,” he said again and Mycroft did so. Greg leaned over to open a drawer beside the bed. He handed a folder to Mycroft. “Thought you’d like to see this.”

Mycroft paused for a moment before opening it to the first page. A slow smile spread over his face as he looked down at the photograph. “How old were you?”

“About 14 maybe.” Greg smiled at the picture of him in an Arsenal kit, stood outside the ground. “Mum took that.” He turned the page to a few more photographs. There was one of him asleep by the lake. Another of Christophe and Alice, Greg's adopted mother. The picture was lopsided. “I think I took that one,” Greg laughed.

“It looks happy,” Mycroft murmured. He turned another page. It was an old school photograph, though Greg looked less than impressed, with his hair probably in need of a haircut. “Where did you get the black eye?” Mycroft asked.

“Fighting,” Greg said.

Mycroft smiled and turned to Greg, rubbing his thumb under his eye, as though touching where it once existed would remove the bruise from the photograph somehow. He turned back to the photos, flicking slowly through them.

Many of them were pictures of the farm, and where Greg used to live in London. There were a few of Greg playing football, more from school and one or two of pictures of him sat on Brighton beach with an ice cream in one hand.

“She got ill that year,” Greg murmured, touching one photograph of his mum, where she sat with a cat on her lap. “Probably the last one of her to be honest.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Yeah.” Greg sighed, thinking back. “He never got over it.”

Mycroft nodded and turned to Greg’s graduation picture. “You were very handsome.”

“Would I have been lucky enough to catch your eye?” Greg asked.

“Undoubtedly.”

Greg smiled and eased him into a kiss. Mycroft closed the folder and gave it to Greg to put back into a drawer. They resumed their previous positions, lying down on the bed.

“What were they like?” Mycroft asked.

“Dad was pretty… hard-going I guess. He had high standards, but I got my work-ethic from him. Mum was better at the big gestures, but she wasn’t really all that affectionate. Neither of them were really.”

Mycroft nodded. “My parents found me difficult, I think. I think they expected a jovial child, instead they brought up an intellectual loner.”

Greg stoked his hair. “Loner by choice?”

“In the early days? Certainly not. But later on, until university, very much so.”

“What changed at uni?”

“I met others like me. Those who found the big occasion daunting. I learnt how to create a facade. And of course, there was Ethan.”

“Tell me about him.”

“What is there to say? He was a cox, he studied biomedical science. He was my first. We were together around a year. We broke up because I was simply far more interested in my work than I was in him.”

“Then, you joined MI5?”

“Yes. And I met Jimmy Dine.”

And Greg knew how that one had gone.

“Several years later there was Tristan Castleton,” Mycroft continued. “But then Sherlock had another overdose, and I ended it immediately. He was far less affected by that than I had expected.”

“So that’s three,” Greg murmured.

“And three others hardly worth mentioning.”

“Why did you live in Washington?”

“Freelance work with the CIA.”

Greg grinned. “You’re ridiculous. You’re definitely James Bond.”

Mycroft laughed.

Greg grinned. “Right. Reckon it’s time for bed.”

“I might read for a little while first, I’m not tired yet.”

“Course,” Greg said. “Stay here, I’ll just lie down next to you.”

“Are you sure?” Mycroft asked.

“Definitely.”

Mycroft sat up and kissed Greg before rolling over to collect his book from the bedside cabinet. After propping up some pillows, he began to read, with Greg lying down beside him, his back pressing against Mycroft’s legs.

He must have fallen asleep, because he woke up just as Mycroft was turning the light off and spooning behind him. Mycroft’s lips touched behind his ear. “Goodnight, Greg,” he whispered.

“Mmmm. Ni’ love.”

He closed his eyes and drifted off again.

 

* * *

 

In the morning, they packed their bags and had breakfast outside. Rosa kissed them each on the cheek, they shook Christophe’s hand. They got to the car and Greg paused for a moment. “Hang on, one sec,” he said as he turned and walked back past Rosa and back into the house.

He found his dad in the living room. “Dad.”

Christophe looked up from his newspaper. “Yes?”

Greg hesitated for a moment, not sure of what to say. “You’re my dad, alright? And... just I... thank you.”

Christophe just stared at him. “I don’t quite understand.”

“You’ve been my dad for more than 30 years. I just wanted to make sure you knew that when I called you it… I meant it.”

“Thank you,” his father whispered, looking back down at his newspaper.

Greg smiled to himself and walked back out. He gave Rosa one quick kiss on the cheek and got into the car. He turned to Mycroft.

“Is everything alright?” Mycroft asked.

Greg nodded. “Yeah, it’s good.”

He watched out of the window as the car was driven off the land which had been in the Lestrade family for generations, and then as they headed back into the centre of Normandy.

He felt Mycroft take hold of his hand as he watched the countryside roll past. He would only allow himself five minutes of regret, he thought. Only five minutes to wonder how it had taken him so many years to realise that Christophe Lestrade, for all his faults, had only ever had his best interests at heart. Greg would only allow himself five minutes to regret not ever giving him a chance, and resenting his questions, taking them only ever as him trying to prove Greg was somehow faulty.

“Greg,” Mycroft murmured from beside him. “He’s going to be alright.”

Greg nodded and squeezed Mycroft’s hand.

He fell asleep on the way to Paris while Mycroft read his reports. Greg had no idea how he read in the back of the car without feeling sick.

They walked up the stairs to Anthea’s flat, Greg groggy after too long a nap. The flat was spacious and modern, with black furniture contrasting with the monochrome walls. He dumped the bags down on the sofa, and found his way to the kitchen to turn the kettle on.

Just as it was boiling, he walked back through to see Mycroft scrolling through his phone. Greg opened the blinds.

He stared out. “Um. Mycroft. I can see the Eiffel Tower.”

“Good gracious, can you really?" Mycroft asked, his voice playful. "That wasn’t there the last time I was here.”

Greg turned to him and laughed. “Hey, I didn’t know this place was going to be opposite the Eiffel bloody Tower.”

Mycroft smiled. “Anthea likes the finer things in life,” he said, walking over to look out of the window too. “Although, I do see the appeal. It’s a splendid view.”

“Yeah, if you like that kind of thing. I want to go up it except for the whole lift thing. And I’m not doing the stairs.”

“Claustrophobia has beaten me too, I’m afraid,” Mycroft said. “We’ll just have to admire from a safe distance.”

Greg grinned. “When are you out?”

“At 1.30pm. I should be back in time for dinner.”

Greg nodded. “I’ll go out for a walk, I think. See if I can pick up some cheesy gifts for people at work.”

“You should go now,” Mycroft told him. “I still need to finish reading some reports in preparation for my meetings.”

Greg nodded and gave him a quick kiss. “Alright. I’ll see you later.”

Mycroft handed him a key. “Have a lovely day.”

Greg smiled at him and took some sunglasses out of his bag. “Will do.”

He walked out of the flat and wandered around to the Eiffel Tower. He went on a boat trip and then visited some of the market stalls. He bought some miniature Eiffel Towers for people at work.

He got Mycroft an old French book with an interesting cover. He had no idea what it was or whether it was worth the 15 euros he paid for it, but he hoped Mycroft might find something about it he liked. He ate lunch out in the sun and took the metro to the Louvre.

By the time he got back to the flat, he was exhausted. Mycroft wasn’t back yet, so he had a shower and opened a bottle of red wine.

He sat on the balcony with a glass, with a football game on the TV in the living room. He didn’t understand the commentary, but he checked the score every time the noise levels rose.

Mycroft joined him at 7.12pm, a glass of wine already in hand. He pulled up a chair beside Greg’s as they kissed lazily before talking about their day.

“Everything go to plan?” Greg asked.

“Surprisingly, yes. They agreed to all of our demands with very few requests of their own. I thought we would have some food delivered to us, is that okay?”

“Yeah, that’s great,” Greg said. “We can sit out here and stare at the tower.”

They ate dinner on the balcony, sipping wine, smoking and watching as the sun set and the Eiffel Tower was lit up. They turned towards each other, kissing leisurely.

“Will Anthea mind if we have sex in her spare room?” Greg asked.

“I think she’d be disappointed if we didn’t.”

Greg laughed and stood up, holding his hand out for Mycroft to take. He led them through to the bedroom and gazed at him. They undressed each other with a casual ease, taking time to hang things or put them back in the suitcase.

When they were down to their boxers, they got onto the bed, lying beside each other.

“Thank you for this weekend,” Greg said. “It’s been really good.”

Mycroft smiled. “Thank you for coming.”

Soft, lingering kisses never became anything more frantic. They were content to lie with each other, sharing the silence and light touches.

When Mycroft pressed inside Greg, he had more self-control than Greg ever believed possible as he moved slowly, their eyes fixed on each other. It was the truest form of making love Greg ever believed to be possible.

He pushed Mycroft’s hair back off his face, cupped his cheek, kissed all over his lips and his jaw. He let his hands wander over his skin.

Eventually, Mycroft pulled out and Greg flipped them over so he could straddle Mycroft’s hips and take his cock back inside. They both gasped, adjusting to the new position.

Mycroft’s hands roamed over his chest, fingers trailing through hair and rubbing his nipples. Greg moved with more desperation, until they were each catching their breaths and moving with far less patience.

They were kissing as they came, groans and gasps muffled by each other’s mouths. They lay on top of the covers in the dark to get their breaths back. Greg sighed, content. He could never be happier than when Mycroft was in his arms.

 

* * *

 

When they returned to London and dropped Greg’s things back at his flat, Greg received the phone call to inform him Christophe Lestrade had died peacefully in his sleep.

As just a few silent tears fell down his cheeks, Mycroft took him to bed.

They hardly spoke. Greg didn’t even need to tell him what happened. Mycroft just held him all night, until he fell asleep. 


	58. I Face This Moment And Picture You By My Side

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Massive thank yous to cltc75, Dravni, MoonRiver, JustLookFrightenedAndScuttle, KingTaran, UnicornSoulHunter, Maliciouspixie5, Jalizar, nasri, jaspurcat, Jaeh, Noctivaga, EdenLost, CommunionNimrod, bananas_are_good_9, Tara148, Abbennett, ladyxdarcy, roosickle, Mice, Novels, WhiskeySally, psychicdreams, miss_anthr0pe, artemisdecibal, TheBluestBlue, fayetree, ainraatheexplorer, ianuk, OwlinAutumn, gngrxx, Jill, undun, Copgirl1964, sherl_jawn, Vonne and sherlockisalive for all youe wonderful comments which never cease to make me smile. And a special mention to rozenmakai, Fiercedeitymask, lillywhite28, ab_initio, LaughingAtArcheologists for reading 57 chapters in a row, which must have taken a long time! I hope you enjoy the next lot.

_May, 2012_

When Greg first woke, it was with fingers slowly brushing through his hair. He hummed, opening his eyes to look up at Mycroft, who was sat up beside him on his laptop.

“How are you feeling?” Mycroft asked after a few minutes.

Greg frowned. His dad had died. He closed his eyes again, reaching up to rub the sleep out of his eyes. He sighed and shook his head. Mycroft continued to stroke his hair.

“Not sunk in,” Greg finally said. He rolled onto his side to press his face into Mycroft’s stomach. He kissed the soft skin there and pulled back, rubbing his face again. “Can’t get my head around it. He had cancer. How the hell did I not know he had cancer?”

Mycroft gently stroked his forehead, his fingers brushing away some of the tension above Greg’s eyes. Greg frowned and looked up at him. “Did you know?” he asked.

Mycroft sighed. “I suspected, yes.”

“Did… did you ask him about it?” Mycroft nodded. Greg stared at him. “What did he say?”

“Not a lot. I asked him to tell you. I had hoped he would.”

“Did you know he was… y’know… near to…” Dying. God, his dad was dead, how the hell was he dead?

“Yes,” Mycroft confirmed.

“Why didn’t he tell me?”

“He found out around a year ago, while you were suspended. He said he didn’t wish to worry you. But I had hoped he’d tell you,” Mycroft told him again. “I’m sorry. I wanted to tell you, but I promised I wouldn’t.”

“It’s alright.” Greg sighed and rolled over to look at the clock. “Don’t you have work?”

“I am working,” Mycroft told him.

“Well, shouldn’t you be… at work?”

“I’m working from home today,” Mycroft said.

Greg sighed. “Thank you,” he said. “I’m going for a fag.” He kissed Mycroft’s stomach again and pulled himself out of bed. “Suppose I should ring Rosa. Find out about arrangements, she might need my help sorting stuff. Jesus.”

“Who told you?” Mycroft asked.

“Dad’s brother.”

“Ah.”

Greg shook his head. He picked his cigarettes up from the side and pulled his dressing gown on. He turned the kettle on and walked to the living room to stick his head out of the window as he lit up.

They had planned to go to Mycroft’s the night after Paris, with Greg having a day off and Mycroft working, but since that phone call, everything had been a blur. A numb ache had settled in his heart.

He returned to bed with two mugs of coffee and shuffled back under the covers, closing his eyes. He lay on his back, listening to the gentle tap of Mycroft’s precise typing.

“Is the network even secure enough to be working on state secrets here?” Greg asked, rubbing his forehead.

“It’s all been dealt with,” Mycroft said.

Greg managed a smile at that. Of course it had. He sighed. “78,” Greg murmured.

“Sorry?”

“Dad’s age. 78. That’s a… that’s a pretty good life right?”

“Yes, I believe so.”

“He didn’t want to live forever anyway. Said he dreaded the idea of people doing things for him. I don’t know how I didn’t know. Wouldn’t he have been sick from the chemo and stuff?”

“He didn’t have any sort of chemotherapy or radiotherapy.”

“What?” Greg asked, incredulous. “Why not?”

“I don’t know.”

“What did you talk about?”

“I asked how long he had been sick. He told me it had been around a year, and gave me the reasons he did not tell you. I urged him to tell you. And that was it.”

Greg pressed his lips together and nodded. He felt tears welling at his eyes, but he blinked them back.

“Greg, I…” Mycroft started. “He patted my arm. And he said that he was sure you would be cared for now. I think…” Greg glanced up at Mycroft. To anyone else, he probably looked stoic and calm. Greg could see the small crests of emotion in his eyes, and in the way he rubbed the tips of his thumb and forefinger together. “I think he was ready, Greg. I think all he wanted was to see you happy.”

Greg swallowed and nodded.

Mycroft closed his laptop and put it down beside the bed. He lay down on his side, reaching out to touch Greg’s cheek. “He told me to take care of you, and I will.”

“I know,” Greg whispered.

“Whatever you need, no matter how small, you only need to ask.”

“If you haven’t deduced it already,” Greg mumbled, pressing his face into Mycroft’s neck. Mycroft chuckled a little and stroked his hair. Greg sighed and let himself be held.

After they showered, Mycroft had them driven to Crusader House. Mycroft set himself up with his work in his office, but he kept the door open except to take a phone call. Greg phoned his dad’s brother first, who told him they were in the midst of arranging the funeral, but he would know everything as soon as they did. Rosa was with her family, he had said. But they would all be in touch, and he would not be kept out of the loop for a second.

Greg went out for a run. The pounding of his feet on hard ground provided a comforting rhythm and cleared his head. He showered at Mycroft’s, using his shower gel. Wrapping a towel around his waist, he walked out into the living room.

Mycroft was stood by the bookcase, flicking through a book. His lips were pursed as he turned the pages with obvious impatience. Greg leaned against the bathroom door, watching him with a smile.

“What you doing?” Greg asked.

“Trying to find the Terrorism Prevention and Investigation Measures Act from 2011. I know I have a copy somewhere.” Mycroft snapped the book shut. “I could have sworn it was in here.”

Mycroft looked up at Greg then and raised an eyebrow. He flicked his tongue out to touch his bottom lip.

Greg started to smile, biting his bottom lip.

“Do you have any idea what you do to me?” Mycroft asked, his voice low. He put the book back onto the shelf.

Greg caught his breath, watching him. “C’mere,” Greg murmured.

Mycroft walked closer. He held his arms out in front of him, catching a drip of water as it fell from Greg’s hair and onto his shoulder. “Are you sure you want to?” Mycroft asked, placing both hands on Greg's shoulders.

Greg nodded. “I do.”

Mycroft smiled and kissed him, trailing his fingers down Greg’s chest. He took hold of the top of the white towel, but he didn’t open it yet. Instead, he dropped down to his knees, licking his lips as he looked up at Greg.

Greg swallowed, reaching out to touch his cheek. His cock twitched beneath the towel, as Mycroft rubbed his cheek against his thigh and then kissed the side of his knee.

Mycroft let the towel fall then, rubbing Greg’s legs from the tops of his feet to his groin. Greg shuddered as he avoided his cock. Mycroft leaned forward to kiss his thighs. Greg stroked his fingers through Mycroft’s soft hair, pressing his hips forward just a little, hinting but not pushing.

Mycroft flicked his tongue out then, licking the head of Greg’s cock and swirling his tongue against it. Greg gasped, moving his hand from Mycroft’s hair to his shoulder, giving him something to grip.

Mycroft took him in his mouth, surrounding him in delicious heat with perfect suction. Greg tipped his head back against the wall, watching Mycroft with half-lidded eyes. He stared at Mycroft’s lips, tight around his cock as he moved his head. Greg’s knees shook.

Mycroft began to use his hand at the same time, and Greg hardly had time to grip Mycroft’s shoulder and warn him, as he came, his body trembling, his eyes squeezing shut.

Mycroft swallowed what he gave before letting his cock fall from his mouth. He looked up at Greg. Greg breathed hard. “Yeah,” he whispered. “Thank you.” He tenderly stroked Mycroft’s cheek and bent down to grab the towel as Mycroft stood up. Mycroft’s arms wound around his neck and they exchanged a light kiss.

“I need to get back to work,” Mycroft said.

Greg nodded and kissed him again. “That’s alright. I might go and prepare some dinner.”

Mycroft kissed his forehead and returned to the bookcase. Greg smiled for a brief moment as he watched him and then walked to the kitchen.

He cut some vegetables and took some steaks out of the freezer to defrost before stretching out along the sofa. There, he read and watched television. It was reassuring to have Mycroft nearby. He could hear him getting up from his chair occasionally, and Greg made him coffees and teas.

Mycroft stopped working at 7pm, and they cooked dinner together. After finishing, Mycroft reached across the table to take Greg’s hands.

“If you want me to come to the funeral, I’ll go,” Mycroft said.

Greg nodded and squeezed his hands. “If you can. I don’t want you taking time off because of me.”

“I’ve worked myself to exhaustion in the past, Greg. When you and I were apart, it was the only thing good in my life.”

Greg glanced down and their joined hands.

“This may be the first truly serious relationship I’ve had,” Mycroft continued, “but I know it requires work, just the same. Unless England itself is set to fall, I will be there for you.”

Greg looked up into his eyes. It struck him, not for the first time, that he had never been loved this much before.

“You always say these amazing things,” Greg whispered. “I dunno how to say them all back, not like you say them.”

“I already know,” Mycroft said. “I always know how you feel.” He reached out to touch Greg’s jaw. “This is the best thing I have ever known.”

Greg swallowed. “Mycroft. I. I can’t believe he’s gone.”

“I know.”

“I remember when… when I met them for the first time. He was really scary.” Greg smiled a bit. Oh, he could picture himself even now, just as a kid. Sat in the main social room in the home, his arms folded and frowning at these two people who entered the room.

Alice had dark brown hair with a few greys, wearing an over-sized jumper with her jeans. Christophe was dressed in a suit. Greg wasn’t sure about him. But then Alice had said: “I heard you liked Arsenal.” And she handed him the annual for the year, with all the players’ names and stats.

Greg was absorbed in it. He didn’t think he’d even said thank you. The next time he met them, it was to go to their home for the first time.

He was terrified. They owned a fish tank, and he was mesmerised by it. Alice was a great cook. He was too scared to say much. He mumbled his pleases and thank yous.

“He didn’t say a lot,” Greg said. “The first time we really had a chat though… I guess they’d been fostering me for a few months. And I had to do this maths test at school, and I’d just got it back. I didn’t do very well on it. I was really worried dad would tell me off or something when he saw it. But he just opened my workbook and started to teach it to me. We were there for hours, I just couldn’t get it. I mean, mum came in and told us dinner was ready, and dad just said we’d eat when we were done. I wasn’t even hungry. I really wanted to impress him.”

Mycroft was smiling easily at him, their hands still clasped in the centre of the table.

“It was about a month later and we had to do another test, and… I got a B on it. He didn’t say much. But he bought me a football.”

Mycroft chuckled. “Did he play with you?”

Greg shook his head. “He didn’t really care about sport. I played for a kid’s team though. Mum came along to that. I played until I was 16, then mum got sick. He was never really affectionate, but obviously things were rough on him then. I never… I never really appreciated him, Mycroft.” Greg frowned down at the table. “It’s been more than 30 years and I never once really told him that I realised what he’d done for me. I just thought… he was so intimidating when I was a kid. And then mum died and I went to uni and he went back to France before I’d even got my degree. And I blamed him. What kind of bastard was I? I blamed him for leaving me, but mum was the love of his life and she was gone.”

“Greg,” Mycroft said gently. “Greg, he knew you loved him. He knew. Who did you go to when you were suspended from work? And after your separation from Jane. He knew you loved him and appreciated him.”

“What if he thought I hated him?”

“He didn’t. I promise you, he didn’t.” Mycroft stood up, dragging his seat around the table so they were sat opposite each other, their knees pressing together. Mycroft held his hands again.

“He did come to my graduation,” Greg murmured. “He got me my first car.” Greg began to chuckle. “He taught me how to carve when I was in my 20s. Me and Caroline went to see him in France, and he told me a man has to carve meat properly, so he cooked these huge joints of meat for us and his friends and he showed me how to carve them all.”

Mycroft smiled. “You do a wonderful job of carving now.”

“And oh God,” Greg burst out laughing. “When I became a policeman, he came round and I wanted to show him how I cuffed a suspect. So I had him all cuffed, but I couldn’t get them open again.” He grinned and rubbed his face. “You should have seen him. Bloody hell, he wasn’t amused, but I was in hysterics, it was so funny. He saw the funny side once I’d finally set him free. And he got this look like ‘oh, Greg, I’m so disappointed.’ But I knew he was kidding.”

The smile which had settled on Greg’s face began to falter. Mycroft leaned forward and kissed him.

“Why didn’t he tell me?” Greg asked.

“Because he didn’t want to worry you. Not while you were fighting to get your job back. It wasn’t because he didn’t care, I promise you that. He was content with his lot, Greg. He was happy and… He was ready. I know that’s hard to hear.”

“No. No, actually… well, he died in his sleep, didn’t he? He was peaceful and… and…” Greg bit his lip. “I’m gonna miss him so much.”

Mycroft stood up, standing close to Greg, enough to draw his head to rest against his stomach. He stroked Greg’s neck.

“Are you done with work?” Greg asked.

“I am.”

“Can we sit and watch a film? A comedy or something.”

Mycroft stepped back and held his hand out. “Of course.”

They watched The Naked Gun together. Greg spent more time watching Mycroft than he did the film. There was nothing in the world he loved more than Mycroft’s smile and Mycroft’s laugh. He became a whole other person. Somebody no one else saw but him.

As the film ended, Greg kissed that beautiful smile. Still a little sad, a little nostalgic, all he needed and wanted was to be close to Mycroft. They kissed with a familiar sweetness before retiring to bed.

Naked in the dark, Greg lay on his back as Mycroft kissed and touched his entire body. His fingers dipped into his belly button, teeth nipped the inside of Greg’s thighs. He held one of Greg’s legs above his shoulder as he took him apart with his tongue, licking and flicking and pressing until Greg was a trembling mess.

Unable to see Mycroft, he was lost on every sensation. He arched into his touch. He accepted two fingers easily into his body, raising his hips and crying out. Mycroft worked him with the skill and knowledge of a long-term lover. He took Greg to the edge over and over, letting him ride the crest but never fall over it.

He combined the movements of his fingers with his expert tongue until Greg was begging for Mycroft to have him.

And as Mycroft pressed inside him, all Greg could muster were broken groans as they moved together, kissing messily. He saw stars as he came, closer to anyone else than he had been in his whole life.

His body shook in Mycroft’s arms as they shared soft kisses, clinging to each other.

When sleep took over him, he went knowing he was loved.

 

* * *

 

Greg asked Sally to come into his office. He had just watered his venus fly trap, which was looking a little dejected.

Sally grinned at him. “Floyd got 10 years in jail, did you see?”

Greg smiled as she took a seat. “Yeah, I did. Brilliant news. Sal, I’m just… I just need to tell you I’m going to be taking a couple of days of work next week.”

“Oh?”

“My dad died.”

“Oh God. Greg. Greg, I am so sorry.”

Greg nodded. “Cheers.”

She reached over and squeezed his hand. “Look, take as long as you need, we’ll be alright here.”

“I’d rather be working to be honest. It takes my mind off it. But I need to go to France and clear his house out and go to the funeral.”

“Of course. Do you need anything?” she asked.

“No, but thanks.”

“Your bloke’s looking after you, right?”

Greg smiled. “He is.”

Sally squeezed his hand again and let go. “I’m here if you need me.”

“Cheers, Sal.”

 

* * *

 

The next week, Greg travelled on the Eurostar to Normandy. He met Rosa at the house and gave her a long hug. He shook hands with his dad’s brother and met Rosa’s son Robert.

They spent the night outside with a barbecue, sipping wine and discussing Christophe’s life. Greg didn’t share much. He spent more time listening to his brother talk about their childhood.

Mycroft joined him the following morning as they met the vicar. Everyone was talking in French, and Greg sat at the corner of the table feeling completely excluded.

“What do you think he would want?” Mycroft whispered in his ear.

“Something quiet. No big fuss. Nice passages. Nothing showy.”

Mycroft nodded, and began to speak in French. Greg couldn’t help but notice how when Mycroft spoke, everybody listened. There were nods and agreements and Mycroft gave Greg’s knee a surreptitious squeeze.

“Thank you,” Greg whispered.

“Do you want to give a reading?”

“No.”

Mycroft spoke on his behalf again. As he did later, when they met with Christophe’s solicitor.

The will was read out to them, and Mycroft asked for a moment as he relayed it to Greg. “The money is split three ways between yourself, Rosa and your father’s brother. The house is yours.”

Greg swallowed. The Lestrade family home. His. He glanced at Christophe’s brother, who spoke in French.

“He believes it's for the best,” Mycroft told Greg.

Greg nodded. “Okay. Okay, right then.”

Rosa had prepared them a meal when they arrived back at the house and Greg took her to one side.

“How are you holding up?” he asked.

“Oh, I’m alright, dear. Look, I knew it was coming. We discussed it over and over, and we knew what was happening. He was content and ready, and so few are as lucky as that.”

“Look, dad gave me the house,” Greg said. “But… look, if you want to stay here, then please do. I’m scared it’ll fall apart without you.”

“Oh, Greg,” Rosa murmured, pulling him into a hug. “Yes. Yes, thank you.”

 

* * *

 

The day of the funeral, Greg stared at himself in the mirror. Mycroft walked behind him and fastened his tie for him. He kissed the side of Greg’s neck.

As they stood outside for the service, Mycroft took his hand. Greg saw some scathing looks flicking their way, but he just pressed closer, glad to have his reassuring presence beside him.

They left France that evening, Greg carrying two boxes of belongings he was yet to go through. When they got to Crusader House, he sat on Mycroft’s living room floor and finally opened them.

There were photo albums with pictures dating back to before Greg was even born. A wedding certificate and birth certificate and Alice Lestrade father’s war medals. Mycroft brought them each other a coffee and sat down with him on the floor as they went through the photographs. He had his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and had taken his tie off earlier than evening.

Greg smiled at him, leaning over for a quick kiss.

Greg found a picture of a summer holiday at the house in France, taken when he was about 14. Christophe Lestrade was sat in a chair by the lake, a newspaper in his lap as he looked to the side with an amused smile. Alice was sat at his feet, looking up and laughing, a glass of wine in her hand. And stood to the side of the picture, the subject of both Christophe and Alice’s gaze, was a triumphant-looking Greg, holding a runaway chicken in his arms.

Mycroft stood up as Greg stared at it and walked into his office. He returned a few moments later, a frame in his hands. Silently, Greg eased the photograph out of the album and Mycroft slid it into the frame.

Kissing the top of Greg’s head, Mycroft put it on top of the fireplace. Greg stared at him. Mycroft had no photographs in his house. And now…

“We’ll take one of our own,” Mycroft murmured as he looked at it.

Greg smiled. “I love you,” he said from his place on the floor.

Mycroft smiled back, rubbing his thumb over the photograph. “I love you too,” he whispered.

 

* * *

 

_June, 2012_

Greg stared at the words on his screen.

 

_Dear Mr Lestrade,_

_We will not be reviewing the case due to insufficient evidence._

 

What. The. Actual. Fuck.

There were 160 plus pages of goddamn evidence in that report.

Greg was fuming. He was still fuming when he got home, cooking dinner and waiting for Mycroft to join him. It was 9.42pm by the time Mycroft got there, looking exhausted.

“Oh, Greg,” he murmured, taking a seat beside him on the sofa. “What was it?”

“Fucking Attorney General won’t look into Sherlock’s case," Greg said bitterly. 

“What?”

“Not enough bloody evidence.” Greg opened the emails on his phone and handed it to Mycroft to take a look.

Mycroft sighed. “Damn,” he muttered, handing the phone back. “Damn,” he said again. He stood up and walked to the window, looking out into the road.

“What now?” Greg asked. Mycroft was silent, his back to him. “Mycroft?”

“I need to make a phone call.” Mycroft took his phone out of his pocket and headed into Greg’s bedroom, closing the door behind him. Greg sighed, drinking his beer.

“Don’t be an idiot!” Greg heard Mycroft say. “You have to stay where you are.” Greg frowned. He wondered if Mycroft knew the bedroom door was not all that soundproof. But that was the first and only comment Greg heard before Mycroft walked back into the room and took a seat on the opposite sofa.

“You alright?” Greg asked.

“Fine.”

Greg frowned at him. He’d closed himself down again, and that bothered Greg more than he wanted to admit. But he knew Mycroft would never push him to answer if their roles were reversed. So Greg just nodded, but he knew he had a disbelieving expression on his face.

Greg finished his beer and got up to get another want. “Want a drink, love?” he asked.

He saw a whisper of a smile cross Mycroft’s face and Greg walked over to that part of the room. He extended his arm out, just touching Mycroft’s temple with the tips of three fingers. He held it there for a few seconds until he saw Mycroft’s shoulders relax a bit. He dropped his hand and made Mycroft a cup of tea.

He carried their drinks out and sat back on the opposite sofa.

It was difficult to see Mycroft like this. Evidently hurting, but hiding it away. Greg thought of how in the past five months Mycroft had been a rock for him. Always holding him, when he was still struggling with Sherlock’s death, while he was struggling with endless nightmares and when his father had died. Now, faced with Mycroft obviously upset or angry but hiding it, Greg hardly knew what to do.

He sipped his beer, flicking through yesterday’s copy of the Independent that he’d picked up at work. There was nothing awkward to the silence. Greg just wanted to give him space to do what he wanted.

He watched at the corner of his eye as Mycroft stood and walked to the window, looking out into the street. It was quiet outside. Greg could hardly hear the cars through those windows at the best of times, but tonight it seemed deathly still.

“What can I do?” Greg asked, watching him.

Mycroft bowed his head a little, his hands holding onto the windowsill as he continued to gaze outside.

Something was bothering him. Bubbling under the surface of his pristine and calm exterior, eating away at him from the inside out. Greg sat still. He watched and he waited.

If Mycroft had been the strong one for the two of them in recent months, then Greg could be the same now.

If Mycroft had been keeping his feelings about Sherlock’s death to himself, he was struggling now. Oh he was dispassionate and detached on the outside. Yet, somehow that was worse than if he’d been sobbing or throwing things.

Because Greg knew that risk. If Mycroft detached himself from him too, then Greg thought that would be back-tracking on all the progress they had made in the past five months.

Greg stood, taking slow, deliberate steps to where Mycroft was stood. He didn’t turn around. But he didn’t flinch either when Greg’s hand reached out to his shoulder, rubbing in slow circles.

Mycroft gave one long breath. Greg stepped closer to him, wrapping his arms around Mycroft’s middle, and pressing his chest against his back. He rested his chin on Mycroft’s shoulder and Mycroft’s hands found his own.

“We need to clear his name,” Mycroft said, his voice barely a whisper.

“I know. We will.”

“It’s vital.”

Greg frowned a bit, but didn’t say anything. Was this Mycroft’s own guilt coming out now? Did he feel like he’d let his brother down and that was why he didn’t blame Greg or Sally for what had happened?

“We’ll do it,” Greg said. “You and me. We’ll sit down and we’ll do it.”

Mycroft nodded. He turned in Greg’s arms, wrapping his own around Greg’s body. Greg was sure he could feel the exhaustion there in the way he clung and rested some of his weight against him.

Greg rubbed his back in slow circles. “Come on. Let’s get you to bed.”

Mycroft allowed himself to be led, and Greg undressed him slowly, putting his pocket watch and cufflinks carefully on the chest of drawers. He unfastened every piece of clothing with loving care, hanging everything up in the way he knew Mycroft liked. It was only when he had undressed his partner down to his boxers that Greg got undressed himself, sliding under the covers with him and drawing him close.

They didn’t say another word as they drifted off into an unexpected, but certainly not unwelcome, sleep.

 

* * *

 

_July, 2012_

Mycroft took a trip away - he didn’t say where.

It seemed the nightmares they had both chased away returned with a vengeance when he was gone.

However irrational they were, however clear it was to Greg that Moriarty was dead and would not steal Mycroft away from him, the fears lingered even so. He dreamt of Mycroft in extreme danger. It wasn’t beyond the realms of possibility, not with the scars which had twice been etched into Mycroft’s back. Hell, even diplomats couldn’t be trusted, since Mycroft bore the cigarette mark from the time in New Delhi.

It was the sense of powerless that accompanied the nightmares which made them as bad as they were. He was helpless to save Mycroft in any of the life-threatening scenarios he found himself in. And for Greg, being without him simply was not an option. He missed him, of course he did. But it was the concern he carried with him during his sleepless nights which made the separation hardest.

It was 4.12am when Greg caught sight of the sliver of light underneath his bedroom door.

Greg dragged himself out of bed and just as he stood up, the door to his bedroom opened. He knew that silhouette instantly, but it didn’t prevent him from jumping and grabbing his chest. “Holy hell, Mycroft! You scared the life out of me. I thought I was being robbed.”

“I do apologise,” a tired voice returned.

Greg sat back down on the bed, watching as Mycroft began to undress. “How was your trip?”

“Hardly worth me wasting my breath over.”

“That bad?”

“That pointless,” Mycroft countered, taking a seat beside Greg on the bed. “Hello.”

Greg grinned. “Morning.”

They exchanged a soft kiss, familiar yet new all the same. Greg hummed, relishing the way their mouths fit together, surrounded in warmth and a loving, reassuring presence.

Mycroft lowered Greg down onto the bed until he was on his back, kissing with a tenderness through their joint exhaustion. Still only half awake, he felt himself grow hard against Mycroft’s hip, as they moved in a lazy fashion. The kiss deepened as their arousal began to grow, hot and heady in an already-warm room.

They both helped Mycroft slide his underwear down and then Greg’s, as they lined their cocks up together. Greg gasped, more used to the feel of his own hand in the past few weeks and only then when he had been in desperate need of sleep. The feel of Mycroft above him, his desire laid out so clear for Greg to see, it was the perfect reminder of everything he had been missing.

He surrendered to sensation, rocking his hips with Mycroft as both their hands joined to add an extra pressure. They fumbled and exchanged breathy laughs with their moans as they sought out a rhythm. Their teeth clanged and it wasn’t straight out of a textbook but it was perfect and wonderful all the same.

Greg was reopening his heart to him, reaffirming Mycroft’s place in his life, reminding himself of everything they were to each other. That all those things he felt, Mycroft felt too.

He sucked a mark onto Mycroft’s collarbone, and curled his toes into the sheets, arching up and shuddering as he came. Mycroft joined him, letting go with a breathy sigh and a whisper of Greg’s name. They kissed, slower and slower, until all they were exchanging were barely whispers of kisses.

Mycroft eased himself down onto his side, reaching out to touch Greg’s chest and run his fingers through the hair there. Their lips met again. Kisses to say ‘I missed you’, kisses to murmur ‘don’t go again’ and kisses which replied ‘not if I can help it’.

After they each used the bathroom, Mycroft lay with his head on Greg’s chest, allowing Greg to hold him like a treasured possession, the most wonderful diamond in all the world. His fingers roamed through impossibly soft hair and found the skin on his neck. Mycroft shivered at the delicate touches, desired and wanted in this room.

Because after all, they were both desired and wanted in this room.

“You’ve been having nightmares,” Mycroft murmured, stroking Greg’s chest with a gentle back and forth movement.

“Mmm,” Greg responded, winding his arms tighter round his partner. He heard Mycroft’s sigh. “Go to bed,” Greg told him. “Just stay right there.”

“I just might,” Mycroft murmured.

Greg closed his own eyes and listened to Mycroft’s breathing as it eased out. He inhaled his scent and found himself relaxing.

 

* * *

 

The nightmares didn’t go away. It was easier, waking up beside Mycroft and feeling him there and listening to his breathing. Or waking up beside Mycroft to find he was already whispering soothing words and telling him he was safe, and they were both safe.

“Your nightmares are getting worse again,” Mycroft murmured over dinner one evening.

Greg frowned at him and had a mouthful of food. He shrugged.

Mycroft eyed him from across the table, his mouth a straight line. “I’ve been doing some reading,” he said.

“Oh right?” Greg replied, hoping to end the conversation as quickly as possible.

“Fostered children are twice as likely to suffer from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder than American war veterans, according to a study.”

Greg frowned and had a long sip of his wine. “Is that right," he muttered. 

“It showed 18 per cent of fostered children who had experienced no abuse whatsoever still showed symptoms of PTSD. Perhaps as a result of sign of real or perceived parental abandonment.”

“Mycroft…” Greg warned, frowning.

“I’m not implying your most recent bout of nightmares has anything to do with your Post-Traumatic Stress, but it’s worth looking at the two together. I recommend-”

“-I don’t have PTSD.”

Mycroft raised his eyebrows at him, tilting his head a little.

Greg pointed at him. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“I’m merely suggesting you discuss the two issues with a doctor. You could easily be part of that 18 per cent, and clearly suffered with it after the Jamall Milone case and-”

“For God’s sake!” Greg snapped, slamming his knife and fork down onto his plate. “I didn’t ask for you to do this! Don’t treat me like a bloody statistic. You are not my doctor-”

“-Then perhaps you should visit one.”

Greg stared at him. “I am fine! I am completely fine.”

“You have had a number of traumatic experiences in your life-”

“-Stop trying to treat me like a walking diagnosis! Bloody hell. Mycroft. Shut your mouth right now.” Mycroft raised his eyebrows at him. “Don’t look at me like that.” Greg pushed the chair out from the table, swigging back the last of his wine and standing up.

“I’m worried about you,” Mycroft said.

Greg folded his arms. “You’re always worried about me. It’s natural. But you don’t need to act like there’s something wrong with me.”

“Perhaps if we can work out the root of the-”

“-It’s because I worry about you, you stupid bastard. When you go away I worry about you. Do you think me talking about that is going to make a blind bit of difference?”

Mycroft frowned. “You worry about me.”

Greg stared at him. How could he be surprised about that? “Yeah, of course I do. What do you think I do?”

“Well I… what is there to worry about?”

“What is there to worry about? Are you flipping kidding me? Mycroft, have you seen your back in the mirror lately?”

“That is not going to happen again.”

Greg rolled his eyes and sat back down at the table. “Can you guarantee that? Can you look at me and say 24 hours a day, you’re never in danger? You’re never gonna get hurt?”

“How can I promise that? I could get run over by a bus.”

“Oh brilliant. That’s brilliant, that is.”

Mycroft looked baffled. “I don’t understand the problem. Everyone is as risk of dying every day, if you look at the numbers-”

“-I don’t want to look at the bloody numbers! I want to look at the fact that you have torture scars across your back, and a bloody cigarette burn for fuck’s sake!”

“Oh for goodness sake, I can’t help what Sherlock did when he was high.”

“I’m not talking about the cigarette burn Sherlock gave you, I’m talking about the one from the fucking diplomat, when you were supposed to be safe and negotiating in New fucking Delhi.”

“Oh. Right, of course,” Mycroft said. “Yes, well, some of those meetings can get quite intense.”

Greg sighed. “Mycroft, when you go away, I sit here and just hope you’re coming home to me in one piece and not in a body bag.”

“Well, actually, it would be a coffin not a…” Greg raised his eyebrows. “Right,” Mycroft finished. “Yes. Not the point.”

“No, it’s not the point. I worry about you. I have nightmares about you dying. So don’t sit there and throw stats about, about how my childhood makes me more prone to PTSD or whatever it is you’re saying. Mycroft, I accept your job. I accept it’s dangerous. I accept it all, I love you for it. But what happens in my head is not because I was adopted or whatever you’re suggesting. It’s because I care about you. Do you get that Mycroft Holmes?” Greg asked pointing at him and then tapping his index finger against the table. “Are you listening to me? Because I care about you. By choice. Because you’re brilliant. I care about you and I worry about you, and that is my choice. I choose to give a damn about you. So don’t turn around and deduce me.”

“You’re the first relationship I’ve ever had. I’m not used to this… depth of feeling about me.”

Greg reached out and touched his arm for one brief second. “I know that. But think about how you feel about me for a second, Mycroft. Are you thinking about it?”

“Yes.”

“I feel that way about you too.”

Mycroft was silent, his eyes closed for a few moments. He opened them and looked across at Greg. “How do you bear it?” he asked softly.

“The same way you do,” Greg told him. Mycroft was staring at the wall, a frown between his eyes. “Mycroft. Mycroft. Don’t do that. Stop thinking, right now, switch your head off, come on. Don’t freak out on me now.”

“It makes me so weak, Greg,” Mycroft said, looking at him. “In their eyes, this… sentiment makes me weak.”

“Shut up.”

“Do you think they’d treat me the same if they realised I cared this much? If they knew that sometimes I feel like my head is spinning and all I want is to be here with you rather than talking to the Prime Minister and talking about strategies for coping with nuclear war? Because you don’t know what I’ve done, Greg. When I’ve done the mathematics and the logic and I’ve sacrificed people for the sake of this entire country. And you make me weak, Greg. Because I can’t sacrifice you. I would see you saved even if it meant thousands died. Even if it meant millions died.”

Greg stood up again, storming out of the kitchen and into the living room. “I do not want to hear that,” he called back. “Don’t you dare fucking say that.”

Mycroft stood up and followed him. “But it’s true.”

Greg turned to look at him. “There’s a greater good, Mycroft. One person - one me - is not worth the lives of millions of people.”

“Then how would I go on without you, knowing I sacrificed your life? Neither of us believe in heaven or hell. You die, and that’s it. And if you die then I die with you.”

“I won’t let you let me live if it means killing more people. I’m telling you, right now. If it ever gets to that, then you call me and you tell me you love me and then you let me die. That’s what I want. That’s how I want to go.”

“Greg.”

“Mycroft. I want to die in your arms when we’re old and have white hair and we’ve been together for 40 years. That might not happen. I know that. But don’t you ever, ever think I’m worth more than someone else just because of what you feel about me.”

Mycroft pressed his lips together. Greg watched him, practically saw the cogs turning in his head. “For the greater good,” Mycroft finally said.

“The greater good. We’re on the same side.”

“I suspect this is not an argument most couples have.”

Greg stared to smile. “No, it definitely isn’t. But our relationship is a bit weird like that.”

“I’m sorry I brought up your nightmares. I was concerned.”

Greg smiled. “I know. Just… don’t do it like that next time, yeah?”

Mycroft smiled and sat down on the sofa. Greg joined him there and leaned over to kiss him. They pressed their foreheads together and Greg sighed.

“Mycroft?”

“Mm?”

“What are you prepared to do to save people’s lives?”

Mycroft pulled away from him and held Greg’s eyes. “Whatever it takes.”

Greg nodded and reached forward to touch his cheek. “I don’t even understand the choices you must make sometimes. But you don’t need to lock it away.”

Mycroft simply nodded and kissed Greg until they forgot they’d even fought. 


	59. Let Time Heal Time, Your Hand In Mine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The people who have commented on this, you are all wonderful. It may just seem like a list of names here, but every one of your messages meant the world, honestly. With thanks to: cltc75, UnicornSoulHunter, DaltonG, MoonRiver, LaughingAtArcheologists, roosickle, bananas_are_good_9, JustLookFrightenedAndScuttle, Superwholockgal, ladyxdarcy, Maliciouspixie5, sherlockisalive, LaTourangelle, EdenLost, Mice, artemisdecibal, KingTaran, psychicdreams, Deadilus, gngrxx, WhiskeySally, rozenmakai, sherl_jawn, nasri, OwlinAutumn, Copgirl1964, Noctivaga, BeckyO, miss_anthr0pe, ianuk, undun, and allmyworldsastage.

_July, 2012_

“If you think about it, Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes isn’t the sort to commit suicide.”

Greg frowned across the table at Anderson. He picked his pint up and had a long sip of it. “What you going on about?” he asked.

“Sherlock Holmes! He isn’t the sort to kill himself.”

“The sort?” Greg repeated. “There is no sort.”

“But if there was, it wouldn’t be Sherlock,” Anderson said.

Greg stared at him. There were more greys in his hair than there had been a few months ago. Dark circles under his eyes. Greg had reluctantly accepted his offer of a pint. Now they were here alone, he wished someone else was here too, to guide them through a conversation which didn’t involve Sherlock. “What, you think he was murdered?” Greg asked. “John saw him standing there. He saw him fall, no one pushed him.”

“I’m not talking about murder, I mean Sherlock’s not dead,” Anderson protested.

Greg frowned. His eyes flicked to Anderson’s pint. “How many of those did you have before I got here?”

Anderson rolled his eyes. “How is your case to clear his name going?”

Greg sighed. “It stalled,” he said. “We got a message three weeks ago to tell us the Attorney General thinks there’s insufficient evidence.”

“We?”

“Me and Mycroft,” Greg said.

Anderson pointed at him. “See!”

Greg narrowed his eyes. “See what?”

“Mycroft Holmes. Sherlock’s brother. Why would he forgive you if Sherlock was actually dead?”

“Because Mycroft’s a good bloke.” Greg sighed. “Look, Sherlock’s dead, Anderson. He’s… he’s gone, alright?”

“But his brother forgives you even after everything you did?”

Greg frowned. That was just brilliant. He really needed a reminder of everything he’d done in the lead up to Sherlock’s suicide. Like a hole in the bloody head. “Yeah. Yeah, he does.”

Anderson snorted. “Sherlock’s right, you really are an idiot.”

Greg dropped his hand down onto the table, harder than he’d intended, and Anderson flinched a bit. “Anderson. Stop this, alright? Sherlock is dead. He’s dead. That’s it. He’s not a miracle man. He doesn’t come back. That’s it.”

Anderson eyed him with a frown. “You just don’t pay attention, Lestrade.”

“I do,” Greg said. “I pay a lot of attention. And you’re obsessed. You need to chill out and concentrate on your work and stop fantasising about Sherlock coming back to life. You’re a good forensics tech. Do what you’re good at.”

Anderson downed the rest of his pint and stood up. “I’m going home.”

Greg rubbed his face. He wanted to apologise, but the word just wasn’t there. “Alright. But just… just try and accept it, okay? Sherlock’s not coming back, however much we want it to happen.”

He frowned to himself as Anderson stormed out.

Sherlock wasn’t the sort to commit suicide, Anderson said. Greg almost believed that was true. When he really, really thought about it and tried to apply some logic, then no. Sherlock wasn’t the sort to commit suicide. But he had. He had, he was dead.

Though if anyone was to successfully fake their own death it would be…

No. No, no. He couldn’t even start to entertain thoughts like that, because when it proved not to be true, it would hurt far too much.

Greg got home still worrying about Anderson. He stood on his post as he walked into his flat and sighed as he grabbed his bills from the floor. He flicked through his council tax letter and double-checked his electricity readings.

He opened the final letter after putting the kettle on. He pulled out a bright pink brochure. At first he thought it was an advert for the London Olympics until he opened the enclosed envelope with two athletics tickets inside.

He stared at them. They had the word ‘complimentary’ stamped across them. He sat down with his laptop, checking the date.

They were for the 100m final.

He grinned. He knew exactly where they’d come from. He wandered back into the kitchen with his phone and rang Mycroft.

“Hello?”

Greg smiled as soon as he answered, getting a mug out of the cupboard. “Mycroft. Hi.”

“Good evening. Is everything okay?”

“It wasn’t until just now. I assume the tickets were your doing?” Greg said.

“Oh, did they arrive? Excellent.”

“They did. Thank you. You’re taking the second ticket right?” Greg asked, pouring the water into his mug.

“Of course, if you want me to,” Mycroft replied.

“Course I do. How’s it going anyway?”

“It’s exhausting. You would not believe the measures going into the security of this thing. Thank God it’ll probably never happen again in our lifetime.”

Greg laughed. “You’ll love it when you’re there, I bet.”

“I have never felt so much joy,” Mycroft said, and Greg laughed when he detected the sarcasm in his partner’s voice.

“C’mon,” Greg said, grinning to himself. “All those men in tight Lycra.”

“Oh yes, of course, now it’s suddenly far more appealing,” Mycroft said, his voice still dripping with sarcasm.

Greg snorted. “No pleasing some people.”

“Thankfully you’re easily pleased, so I think we’ve got a fine balance.”

Greg laughed. “I’m only pleased when it’s you.”

“You’re an awful flirt, Greg Lestrade.”

“You love it.”

“I suppose I can’t deny that.”

Greg grinned. “See you in a couple of nights then, yeah? We still on for watching the opening ceremony on the TV together?”

“Of course.”

“Alright. I should go make some dinner, but I’ll talk to you soon.”

“Goodnight, Greg.”

“Night, Mycroft.”

Greg hung up, smiling to himself as he put the tickets in a drawer in the kitchen. They had started to find a perfect routine. When they were working late, they often slept in their own flats. But they shared a bed three or four times a week, choosing the home of whoever finished work first and could provide some dinner.

It was easy and perfect. Settled but slow. Greg wasn’t going to rush it. He’d rushed it with Caroline and with Jane, but this was something he was willing to take his time over. To savour every slow progression in their fledgling relationship and nurture it carefully.

As he sat down on the sofa to watch TV, he did so knowing he wasn’t alone, even if Mycroft was miles away.

 

* * *

 

 

Mycroft was still keeping a critical eye on security protocol and procedure when the Olympic opening ceremony began a few days later. Greg was sprawled out on the floor of his flat, a box of pizza and a beer beside him. Mycroft was sat on one of Greg’s sofas, typing away.

“How’s it going?” Greg asked.

“Not perfect, but people are mostly following orders. As good as can be hoped, I suppose.”

Greg laughed and pulled out a slice of pizza. “Are you sure you don’t want any of this?”

“Quite sure, thank you.”

Greg grinned and leaned back to rest against Mycroft’s legs. He didn’t mind at all that Mycroft was working. He was here with him and it was amazing.

Mycroft leaned forward to put his laptop on the table. Greg glanced at it. The screen was split three ways, with a map covering one half with green and blue dots moving around it. The other half of the screen was split in two, with Mycroft’s emails in the top right-hand corner, and a constant stream of CCTV data in the corner below it. Greg glanced up at him.

“What’s wrong?” Mycroft asked, frowning.

“Nothing, just. I can see your work.”

Mycroft continued to look bewildered. “Yes.”

Greg smiled and shook his head. “It’s just… you trust me.”

“Of course I do. I always have.”

Greg felt his heart ache. Trust. Such an important thing, and it had been something he and Mycroft had discussed when they had reunited. Greg told him he would trust him again. And that was never truer than now. “I trust you too,” Greg said, turning to look at him. “I promise I do.”

Mycroft leaned forward and kissed the top of his head. “Thank you.”

Greg smiled and finished off his pizza, watching the television. “This is amazing,” he said as he watched the dancers and the scenery change.

Mycroft nodded, a hint of pride hidden within his smile. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, it is.”

Greg joined him on the sofa and they lay there together, watching the fireworks, the nations marching with their flags and the lighting of the Olympic cauldron.

 

* * *

 

_August, 2012_

They attended the Games together. Mycroft’s driver pulled them into an exclusive car park and they spent an hour walking around the Olympic Park before the evening athletics session got underway. Greg was sure one of Mycroft’s security was on their detail, but he didn’t let it bother him as they admired the outside of the venues.

Mycroft, who had been round the Park several times already, was able to spend his time telling Greg all about the various buildings, how much they cost and what their designs were inspired by.

As they moved to their seats, Greg was amazed at the number of famous faces he recognised in the area they were sat in. And as they sat down right by the finish line he folded his arms and raised his eyebrows at Mycroft.

“You didn’t tell me our seats were this good,” Greg said. “I would have spent the whole week bragging if I’d known.”

Mycroft smiled. “Perhaps the reason I didn’t tell you.”

Greg looked up as Anthea joined them, Arnou following behind her. They exchanges hellos and how are yous, before settling down for the sport to begin.

Mycroft was hardly as enamoured with it all as Greg was. Greg joined in with the cheering and the clapping and leaning forward in his chair when something exciting was taking place. Mycroft spent a lot of time on his phone, but he also spent it talking to Greg and checking how everything was going and who he should be supporting.

“You’re the best,” Greg grinned at him after they had watched Britain’s Christine Ohuruogo take silver in the 400m. “Thank you so much for this.”

Mycroft just smiled and squeezed his knee. “I promised I’d get you the tickets.”

Greg frowned, thinking. “Did you?”

“Yes, the night we went to The Luggage Room in Mayfair. We had cheese and wine. It was the night I gave you the folder on your birth parents.”

Greg stared at him. “That was years ago.”

“Four years ago, but yes,” Mycroft said.

“I can’t believe you remembered that. Thank you.”

“It’s my pleasure.”

Greg smiled at him.

“You two,” Anthea said with a smile. “You put us married couples to shame.”

Greg just laughed and opened his programme to see what was next, squinting a bit at the words. “You need glasses,” Mycroft murmured from beside him.

“No, I don’t, it’s just the stadium lights in my eyes.”

Mycroft just chuckled and stroked his knee in response.

 

* * *

 

“Is it murder?” Greg asked, crossing his arms. Only one day after he had been enjoying the Olympic Stadium and he was back to earth with a bang and a body lying on a lush green carpet.

“If you look at the-”

“Is it murder?” Greg repeated.

Anderson looked up at him. He narrowed his eyes and turned back to the body. Greg pressed his lips together and counted to five. He promised himself he wouldn’t lose his temper with Anderson, not after seeing him month after month becoming more and more detached. But he really was trying his patience today.

“Anderson,” Greg pressed. “I know sometimes these things take time, but I really, really don’t have all day.”

“I don’t know,” Anderson snapped. And then, under his breath he added: “Sherlock would have known.”

Greg sighed and rubbed his face. “Yeah, but he’s not here, is he?” Greg took a deep breath. “Look, I trust your judgement. You’re the best in the department. Is this murder?”

Anderson stood up. He and Greg held each other’s eyes. Anderson’s expression finally became a glare before he took his gloves off and flung them across the room. “I’ll call him and ask,” Anderson said.

Greg stared at him. “Call who and ask?”

“Sherlock.”

Greg frowned. “Anderson. Sherlock’s dead.”

Sally walked into the room at that moment, hanging up on her conversation on her mobile phone.

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous,” Anderson said. “Of course he’s not dead. I spoke to him just a week ago.”

“Anderson…” Greg exchanged a look with Sally. She took a cautious step forward, as though forcing herself not to make any quick movements.

“Philip,” Sally murmured, her voice soft. “Philip, Sherlock’s dead.”

“He’s not dead,” Anderson said, rolling his eyes. “How do you think he’s dead? Of course he’s not dead! We had a conversation about moulds.”

“Anderson,” Greg said. He bit his lip. “Anderson, I think… I think you’re hallucinating him, mate.”

Anderson frowned at him. He looked between Greg and Sally, and Greg noticed his hands shaking. Sally took a small step towards him, reaching a hand out but not touching. “Philip,” she said. “Sherlock’s not alive.”

“But I-I spoke… I-I saw…” Anderson swallowed, taking a few steps towards the wall. His left hand continued to shake, his eyes flicking between Greg and Sally at a rapid rate.

“It’s alright,” Sally said. “It’s okay, it’s okay.”

Anderson took one more step back and he hit the wall. He stared at Greg. There was genuine fear in his eyes. “If he’s dead then why is he behind you?” Anderson whispered.

Greg frowned, looking over his shoulder. “There’s no one there,” he said quietly. “Christ.” He rubbed his face.

Anderson continued to stare past Greg’s shoulder. He started to slide down the wall, until he reached the floor, pulling his knees up to his chest.

“Lestrade,” Sally said quietly, shrugging helplessly at him.

Greg just did not know what to do. How could he know what to do in this situation? “C’mon,” Greg said. “Let’s get out of here, yeah?”

Anderson stared up at him. “You can’t see him?”

Greg shook his head. “No.”

“Oh God,” Anderson muttered, shaking his head and rubbing his face.

“Come on,” Greg urged. “Come on, I’m taking you home.”

“Lestrade,” Anderson whispered, desperation seeping into his voice.

Greg walked towards him and held his arm out. “Come on.”

Anderson stared up at him before accepting his arm and then letting Greg lead him out of the room. He led him out of the building and down towards the car, Anderson shaky on his feet.

“You need to take time off,” Greg told him. “I’m gonna take you home and then you’re going to visit a doctor and then you’re going to take time off.”

Anderson nodded numbly.

Greg drove him home and left him when his wife arrived. He drove back to the crime scene, asking for someone else to join from forensics.

Sally looked at him when he walked back in. Greg shook his head. “God,” he murmured.

Sally nodded. “I know. I knew he was saying Sherlock was alive but I thought he was just…” She trailed off, frowning.

“Feeling guilty?” Greg finished for her.

“Yeah.”

Greg sighed and shook his head. “I didn’t even know what to say to him.”

“What is there to say?” she asked. “He needs help, Lestrade.”

Greg nodded. “I told him to see a doctor and get time off. If I see him back at the Yard in a month I think it’ll still be too soon.”

“We’re just.” Sally frowned and looked at her feet for a moment. “Sam and me and you and Piper, Leon. No one’s got over this properly. You know, even Sam feels guilty. Why else did he call the band The Consulting Detectives for God’s sake? He feels guilty because some of the time he thinks Sherlock was a murderer. And he knows I think it’s true.”

“I’m trying to clear his name, Sal.”

She frowned at him. “You are? Have you got evidence?”

“Not enough according to the Attorney General. But I’m going to get it. And I will get it cleared.”

Sally bit her lip. “I’ll be your test.”

“What?” Greg asked her.

“When you’ve got enough evidence to send it to the Attorney General again, let me see it. If you convince me, then you’ll convince anyone.”

“Why do you want to see it?” Greg asked.

“I just want you to be right. Even if it means this all hurts even more.”

Another member of the forensics team walked in then, and they focused on the body instead.

When Greg finally got home, he climbed into bed and called Mycroft. He answered with a tired “hello.”

“Sorry, did I wake you?” Greg asked.

“No. I’m still working. What’s wrong?”

“Anderson hallucinated Sherlock," Greg told him. "Just bothered me.” Wanted to hear your voice, he added in his head.

“Are you going to bed?” Mycroft asked.

“Yeah.”

“Turn the light off and get comfortable.”

Greg did as he was instructed, shuffling down and resting his head on the pillow. “Done,” he murmured, putting the phone on loudspeaker and closing his eyes.

“I am very rarely surprised, as you know,” Mycroft said. “But today, I was.”

Greg smiled to himself. “What happened?”

“Do you remember Ban Ki-Moon?”

“I think so,” Greg said.

“He became the UN Secretary General in 2006. I was on the vetting panel for him. While I agreed he was a good harmoniser, I did not think he was charismatic enough to lead, not with the world in the mess it’s in. A meeting was held in Tehran today. Some countries, with disagreeable human rights records, urged Ban to stay away. But he refused. And today, he was sat beside the Iranian Parliament speaker and, against all expectations, questioned Iran’s human rights record during a news conference. No one saw it coming, Greg. Least of all me.”

Greg smiled. “Well done that man,” he said.

“I’m delighted,” Mycroft said. “It has brought the issues to international attention. World leaders are discussing it. Reporters are writing about it. Years, I have been urging leaders to speak out and… well, he was the last person I expected to say anything. How is Anderson?”

“Seeing a doctor,” Greg said. “I… I was almost beginning to believe him. When he said Sherlock wouldn’t commit suicide. But… but he was hallucinating it. I should have known better than to get my hopes up like that.”

“I hope Anderson gets all the help he needs,” Mycroft said.

“He will,” Greg said. “I’m ready to go to sleep now. I’ll see you next week. Good luck with all the oil stuff this week.”

“Thank you. Call whenever you need to.”

“I will. Night, Mycroft.”

“Goodnight, Greg.”

Greg smiled as he hung up and fell into an easy sleep.

 

* * *

 

_September, 2012_

Greg sat opposite Mycroft’s desk as Mycroft stood by the printer. They had begun working together on clearing Sherlock’s name, and had spent the past three weeks devising tactics and finding leads.

They spent much of their time working in Mycroft’s office at Crusader House. Mycroft had even gone as far as to buy a second desk, and they had spent one Sunday afternoon moving furniture around and clearing space for folders and boxes, and swapping paintings on the walls for corkboards and whiteboards.

Tonight, however, they were at the Coeur de Lion offices while Mycroft waited for news on a strike in Afghanistan.

Greg yawned and checked his watch. “We’ve been at this for three hours. Can we order take away to your office?”

Mycroft chuckled. “I’ll put in a request in a moment. Chinese?”

“Yes please.” Mycroft took some papers from the printer and Greg took them from him. “This is the whole list?” Greg asked, looking through the names.

“Everyone I can think of.”

Greg frowned and flicked through it. “There’s people on here I don’t think we’re ever going to be able to get answers from.”

“We wanted it to be comprehensive,” Mycroft said, sitting down and typing something into his laptop.

Greg nodded and put the papers down. “I’ll start working on this tomorrow lunch time. It would be a hell of a lot easier if I could make this an official investigation and could do this during work hours.”

“How would you do that?” Mycroft asked.

“I can’t. Basically. When we open a case, it has to be signed off at a stage higher than me, so that’s a Detective Chief Inspector. Saying all that, McCormack’s retiring later this year, I might put my name into the hat. See if I can’t get an interview for the job at least.”

“Would you want to distance yourself from cases?” Mycroft asked.

Greg shrugged. “I don’t know. I haven’t really been giving it much thought. I’m not getting any younger. What do you think?”

“You’d make an excellent DCI,” Mycroft said. “I will support whatever decision you make.”

“No harm in applying, I guess,” Greg said, stretching his legs out onto Mycroft’s desk. “Applications have to be in by the end of next week. And then there’s three stages of interviews after that.”

“Who else do you think will be applying?”

“Carter, maybe. I don’t think Dimmock will, though he’s the power-hungry type. He’s too inexperienced though. I think they’re more likely to choose someone from outside. That’s what they’ve tended to do.” Greg frowned. “I dunno. After everything that happened with Sherlock and Sally and Anderson… I’m not sure. Am I good enough at dealing with people to get a promotion?”

“I believe you are. They were an extreme set of circumstances.”

“Mmm. Nothing to lose I guess. Do you really think I should go for it?”

“I do.”

Greg smiled at him and turned back to his paperwork. “So. Let’s go over this again.”

 

* * *

 

Greg turned his CD player on and checked the state of his lasagna. Now he was here, sorting out dinner, he wasn’t so sure inviting Sally and Sam over for a meal with him and Mycroft was such a good idea. Mycroft had been content with the idea when Greg initially suggested it. But then, they had shared more than a bottle of wine between them by that point…

Greg grinned at the memory. He’d taken Mycroft to bed and the sex… the alcohol had lowered both their inhibitions, and Mycroft had been demanding and, and some of the things he told Greg he wanted to do to him…

Greg closed the oven when he heard the knock on the door. Now was not the time to be imagining Mycroft handcuffing him to the bed. He walked to the door and opened it. “Brockhurst,” Greg grinned, stepping aside to let Sam and Sally in. “Long time no see.”

They shook hands, Sam grinning back. “Alright, Lestrade?” Sam held up a carrier bag of beer. “Can I put this in your fridge?”

“Knock yourself out,” Greg said. He gave Sally a quick kiss on the cheek. “Nice holiday?”

“Brilliant,” she said. “We went to all the sights, it was great.”

Sam walked out of the kitchen and handed Greg and Sally a bottle of beer each. “Boyfriend not around?” Sam asked, looking around Greg’s living room.

“He’s got caught up at work, but he should be here in a bit,” Greg told him.

Sally took a seat on the sofa. “How’s Anderson?” she asked.

Greg shrugged, sitting down on the opposite couch while Sam sat down beside Sally. “He’s talking to someone, so at least there’s some progress there. But he’ll be off work for another couple of months.”

“I can’t believe he was hallucinating,” Sam said.

“He just had a breakdown, mate,” Greg said. “Should have seen it coming.”

“Everyone deals with things differently,” Sally said. “But even when he kept going on about Sherlock being alive… I just thought he was feeling guilty.”

“So did I,” Greg said. “And I feel bad for having a go at him and everything.” Greg looked up at the sound of a key in the door. He pointed at Sam. “Behave, Brockhurst. None of your crude jokes.”

Sam laughed and Greg grinned at him. He smiled as Mycroft walked in, a nervous flutter settling in his stomach as Sally and Sam both turned to look at him.

Mycroft stood his umbrella against the wall, and gave them all a brief nod. “Good evening,” he said, walking towards the sofas.

Sam stood up and held his hand out for Mycroft to shake. “Sam Brockhurst.”

“Mycroft Holmes,” Mycroft said as he shook his hand and looked at Sally. “Good evening, Sergeant Donovan.”

“Sally,” she said, smiling warmly.

Mycroft nodded. “Sally. Greg, can I help you with anything in the kitchen?”

Greg got up. “Sure.” He walked to the kitchen and Mycroft followed him. “You alright?” Greg asked.

Mycroft sighed and took a glass from the cupboard and poured himself some wine. “I may have to leave early, we have a possible situation in Pakistan.” They shared a quick kiss before Greg took the lasagna out of the oven.

“That’s alright,” Greg said. “Got time for some food first though?”

“Yes, of course.”

Greg studied him. “What happened?” he asked.

Mycroft leaned towards him and murmured quietly against his ear. “There are rumours of a terrorist strike in London tomorrow evening,”

“Jesus,” Greg muttered, pulling back to look at him. “Look, if you need to go…”

Mycroft shook his head. “No. I’m working it out as we speak. But it’s far easier to think clearly when I’m relaxed.”

Greg gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. “If you need to leave at any point, just go. They know how it is with work and stuff.”

“Thank you.” Mycroft helped him dish up the lasagna with some salad and garlic bread and carried the plates to the living room. They all took their seats on the sofas, eating on their laps. “How is the music career?” Mycroft asked Sam.

Sam grinned. “Amazing. Absolutely fucking fantastic. Best thing I ever did.”

“I understand you named your band after my brother?”

Sam nodded. “Is that alright?”

“Yes, of course,” Mycroft said. “I was… surprised.”

“It’s a good name,” Greg said. “It’s nice. I think.”

Sam smiled. “Yeah. So, I’ve been doing that by night and then doing some art by day.”

Greg stared at him. “Art?”

“Oh, don’t get him started,” Sally said, but she was smiling, nudging him playfully. They both grinned at each other. Greg smiled to himself, glad to see Sally in such a good relationship with someone at last.

“Art?” Mycroft asked.

“Yeah,” Sam said. “Well, I used to do a lot of portraits when I was at uni. But I sort of stopped when I joined the Yard. Found a bit more free time on my hands and I was painting mine and Sally’s flat. And then one thing led to another and I was painting a mural.”

“I couldn’t believe it,” Sally said. “I got home at about 10pm, thinking all I wanted was a nice soak in the bath. And I got in, and there was a whole underwater mural along the whole wall with sharks and fish and all sorts.”

“It’s great,” Sam grinned.

“It’s ridiculous,” Sally said, and she passed her phone to Greg to look at a picture of their bathroom, complete with an octopus and and turtle on the mural.

Greg laughed and showed the picture to Mycroft. “And you paint portraits?” Mycroft asked.

“If you scroll along the pictures, you’ll see the one he did of my nephew,” Sally said. “And then there’s some commissions after that.”

Greg looked over Mycroft’s shoulders as he skipped through the pictures. “They’re very well done,” Mycroft said. “The eyes are full of expression.” He looked up at Sam. “You’re very talented. Are portraits all you do?”

“No, I do some more surrealist stuff too.” Sam took out his own phone and passed it to Greg. “I’ve not sold any of it, it’s just eating dust at the moment until I set up my website to display it all.” Greg looked down at the painting, of chess pieces depicted as real people. The queen really was the Queen, but moulded into the shape of a chess piece. The pawns were police officers and soldiers. Various politicians, both from the UK and abroad were perfectly caricatured as chess pieces.

“This is extraordinary,” Mycroft murmured. “How much do you charge?”

“Charge?” Sam asked. “For a portrait? Few thousand.”

Greg let out a low whistle. “Bloody hell. No wonder you left the Yard.”

“How large is this piece?” Mycroft asked.

Sam held his arms out. “This wide?”

“Around three feet,” Mycroft murmured. “Yes, that sounds about right. Is that particular piece for sale?”

Sam stared at him. “You want to buy that?”

“If you can bear to be parted with it. I think it would make a magnificent addition above my fireplace. Greg, what do you think?”

Greg stared at him. “Yeah. Well, yeah, definitely.”

Mycroft leaned forward to pass Sam back his phone. “If you could name your price, Sam, I would be grateful.”

“I’ll er… yeah.” Sam grinned. “Cheers.”

Mycroft handed him a business card. “If you could email me the details, then I will have a driver come to pick it up at a convenient time.”

Sam smiled. “Wow. Cheers, mate, that’s brilliant.”

Mycroft smiled back and then paused. Greg glanced at him. He knew that look. He’d seen it on Sherlock plenty of times, though with Sherlock it used to coincide with insults. On Mycroft, it was an expression of sheer clarity. “Greg, will you excuse me for a moment, I think I have just come up with a solution to my work problem.”

Greg grinned at him. “Go for it.”

Mycroft stood up, retrieving his phone from his pocket. He walked to the bedroom and closed the door behind him.

“Is he serious about buying it?” Sam asked. “He really doesn’t have to do that.”

“He’s serious,” Greg said. “He doesn’t do anything he’s not sure about.”

“Well, I like him,” Sam said, stacking his and Sally’s empty plates on the table.

“You’re so fickle,” Sally said playfully. Sam grinned at her and Sally raised her eyebrows.

Greg smiled as he watched them together. They discussed the Premier League season and how things were going at work. The beer flowed, and they caught up on Sam and Sally’s recent holiday to Athens and their new flat. It was an hour before Mycroft emerged from the bedroom, no longer wearing his jacket or tie, and his sleeves were rolled up to his elbows.

He wandered into the kitchen and emerged with the bottle of wine. “A celebration,” Mycroft said, smiling. “I have had a very good evening.”

Greg looked at him. “All sorted?”

“Better than I could ever have hoped,” Mycroft replied, taking a seat beside him and wrapping an arm around the back of the chair, so if Greg leaned back, he could feel his warmth against his shoulders.

“So, what exactly do you do, Mycroft?” Sally asked.

“A small role in the Department of Transport.”

“Bullshit,” Sam said. “You work for MI5. Or MI6.”

“Both, actually,” Mycroft replied. “Purely in an administrative role.”

Sam just smiled knowingly. “Uh huh.”

The conversation returned to art. Mycroft and Sam spent a long time discussing their favourite artists, styles and their experiences as children and teenagers, visiting the Louvre. Greg settled against Mycroft’s side and shared a smile with Sally.

It was Mycroft like Greg had never experienced before, not with other people. It was Mycroft how he always had been with Greg. Easy and playful and full of genuine charm. This was the man Anthea and Greg saw. The kind-hearted, generous person when the weight of the world was lifted from his shoulders for a few hours. And if he found Sam and Sally boring, he never showed it.

They left at 11.14pm, exchanging kisses on cheeks and shaking hands. When they finally closed the door, Mycroft pulled Greg close, pressing kisses along his jaw.

“Was that alright?” Greg asked.

“I enjoyed it,” Mycroft said.

“I thought… y’know. Maybe you’d find it dull.”

Mycroft shook his head. “Sam is a breath of fresh air.”

Greg kissed him. “Tired now though?”

“Yes, that was enough social interaction for the rest of the week,” Mycroft said.

Greg laughed and took his hand. “Come to bed.”

Mycroft smiled and kissed him lovingly and slowly. “With pleasure.”

 

* * *

 

_October, 2012_

Greg grabbed a stack of paperwork from one of his shelves and started flicking through it to check it was all fine to throw away. He glanced at the folder the paper had been on top of.

He bit his bottom lip and took it off the shelf and opened it to the first page. There was his birth certificate. He pressed his lips together and carried it over to the sofa. He stared down at the words for a while.

_Name: Greg Knight. Date of birth: November 14, 1966. Mother: Connie Knight. Father: Jerry Whitehead._

Greg turned the page. There was Jerry Whitehead’s birth certificate and Connie Knight’s birth certificate. Jerry had been 31 when Greg was born. Connie had only been 22.

His hand shook as he turned the next page. He looked up when he heard the key in the lock. He closed the folder and put it on the table. Mycroft put his briefcase and umbrella against the wall before walking over to the sofa.

“Hey,” Greg said, leaning back to let Mycroft kiss him. “Want a drink?”

“I’ll make it. Did something happen?” Mycroft asked.

“Happen? No, nothing’s happened.”

“You’re reading the folder.”

Greg sighed. “I came across it and thought I should read it. I don’t know why. Maybe I shouldn’t.”

Mycroft watched him for a moment, removing his jacket and hanging it up on the bedroom door handle. “Give me a moment,” he said, walking into the kitchen and turning the kettle on.

“How was your day?” Greg called out to him.

“Successful, for the most part. The High Court ruled we can extradite some terrorist suspects abroad for trial. On the other hand, Russia is causing rumblings.” He carried some coffees out and took a seat beside Greg on the sofa. They shared a few soft kisses. “How was your day?”

Greg pulled a face. “Cuts. Got a new financial system coming in, so they’re cutting jobs. Cutting top jobs and normal PC jobs as well.”

Mycroft shook his head. “I’m sorry.”

“So we have the Olympics and everyone says what a success it is and how good the policing was, and then once it’s all over, our budget gets sliced.”

“Do you know where the cuts are being made?”

“Not yet. They’re going to announce it to the whole force next week and then we’ll know what’s happening. I think they’ll start by axing any job vacancies we’re advertising. But obviously that just leaves us under-staffed. I don’t even know if the DCI job is up for grabs anymore.”

Mycroft watched him. “I wish I could help.”

“It’s alright. There’s cuts everywhere, I know there is.”

“And so why the folder?” Mycroft asked.

“I was chucking some old bills and stuff. And it was all on top of the folder.” Greg looked at it and picked it up off the table. He turned back to the page he was on.

Mycroft reached for his coffee and had a sip. “Have you looked at this before?”

“No. I’ve flicked through it, but I haven’t read anything.”

“Do you want to?” Mycroft asked.

Greg pressed his lips together. “I want.” He rubbed his forehead. “Yeah. Yeah, I want to know.”

He took a breath and turned the page.

“Death certificates,” Mycroft murmured. “Connie and Jerry’s parents.” Mycroft turned the page. “Connie’s father served in the Second World War. His war record is here.”

Greg let out a half smile. “That’s amazing,” he murmured. “What did he do?”

“He was involved in the Battle of the Atlantic. It was a campaign which lasted the entire war. He was involved in that from 1942 until 1945. It was a British naval blockade of Germany.” Mycroft turned the page. “And here he is.”

Greg stared at the picture of a young man in a navy uniform. He reached out to rub his thumb against the reproduction of the photograph.

“He has your eyes,” Mycroft said. “Kind eyes.”

Greg looked at him and smiled. “Your grandfather served too, didn’t he? You wear his ring.”

“Yes,” Mycroft said. “On my father’s side, my grandpa was involved in protecting the Suez Canal. On my mother’s side, my grandfather, whose ring I wear, was in the RAF and involved in the Battle Of Britain.”

Greg smiled and turned the page. “What’s this?”

“Jerry Whitehead’s father’s war record. Jerry’s father was a doctor. He was killed and buried in France.”

“Oh.” Greg frowned.

“And then…” Mycroft turned another page. “Jerry had one sister, who never had children. She moved to Liverpool, as her husband worked on the docks after the war.”

“Who’s that?” Greg asked.

“Jerry Whitehead in the centre and two other defendants from the robbery and attempted murder trial.”

“So this photo…”

“It was published in many of the national newspapers,” Mycroft said.

Greg sighed. “Alright.” He bit his lip. Mycroft turned the page over to a photocopy of a newspaper article. “Read it to me?”

Mycroft nodded. He took a deep breath before beginning to read the article. “The estranged fiancee of a man accused of attempted murder and robbery yesterday testified against him at the Old Bailey. Jerry Whitehead, aged 31, stands accused of the attempted murder of Tobias Frieling and the robbery of several bookmakers and public houses in May last year.”

Greg swallowed and sipped his coffee.

Mycroft paused for a moment to drink his own, before continuing. “Connie Knight, aged 22 and the mother of Whitehead’s four-month-old child, told a jury how Whitehead returned home covered in blood and carrying a suitcase full of money. Wearing a black dress, blonde Miss Knight wiped her eyes as she gave testimony relating to the night of the shooting of Mr Frieling.

“Miss Knight told the court how she tried to scrub the blood out of his clothes before Whitehead threw them on a bonfire the following evening. Miss Knight, who had to take several breaks to have a glass of water throughout six hours of gruelling testimony, told how Whitebread bragged of his ability to break into public houses and threaten staff.

“She told the jury how she was frightened for her life and the life of her young son. She said she left her home with Whitehead when her son was born to protect him and he is currently being brought up by close friends. It is expected the defence will finish examining Miss Knight tomorrow lunchtime, before the prosecution begins its own examination of her evidence.”

Mycroft lowered the folder and looked at Greg. “Shall I continue?” he asked.

Greg shook his head. “No, it’s okay. What’s next?”

Mycroft turned over the page. “Another newspaper article of that second day in court. And then…” He sighed and began to read. “A woman who gave testimony against her estranged fiance accused of attempted murder and robbery has been found dead two days after giving evidence in court. Connie Knight, aged 22 and the mother of a four-month-old boy, was found in the early hours of yesterday morning in Queensberry Way.”

“But she… she’d already given me away by then,” Greg murmured. “To the hospital. She… the newspaper, it said I was living with her friends. Why did she just put me in a hospital?”

“Her parents had already died. And I expect she thought you were safer, anonymous in a hospital where no one could find you.”

“Oh. Oh, God. She didn’t have a choice, did she? What did… her parents must have been so young.”

“They were killed in a road traffic accident.”

“Jesus,” Greg muttered. “She was so… there’s no pictures of her?”

“No, I’m sorry.”

“I can’t accept Jerry Whitehead as my dad. But she… I’m proud to be related to her.”

“She sounds like an incredible person,” Mycroft said.

“Where’s she buried?”

“Putney Vale Cemetery.”

Greg nodded. He closed the folder and put it down on the table. He had a long sip of his coffee, leaning back against the sofa. Mycroft reached out to stroke his hair.

Greg curled up with him and they sat together in silence, listening to the cars in the road outside.

 

* * *

 

The next week, Greg went to Putney Vale Cemetery. He spent 15 minutes walking up and down past the headstones until he realised he would never have enough time to look at all of them and find the one he wanted.

He opened the door to the church, looking around.

The reverend looked up at him with a kind smile. “Good afternoon.”

“Hi,” Greg said with a nod. “Are you able to give me a hand? I’m looking for a particular grave outside.”

“Of course. Give me one moment.” The man walked through a door into the back offices. He emerged with a large book, papers slipping out at the edges. “What is the name?”

“Connie Knight,” Greg said, taking a seat beside him.

The reverend flicked through the pages. “Number 514. Yes, I can find that one. That’s interesting.”

“What is?” Greg asked.

“The headstone was paid for by donations from parishioners and others from outside the church community.”

“She didn’t have any relatives,” Greg said, glancing at the paper. People cared about Connie enough to pay for her grave. For her funeral. He wondered how many even knew her and how many were just touched by her sad story.

“Who was she?”

“My birth mother,” Greg told him. “She died when I was a few months old.”

“I am sorry.” The reverend stood. “Come. I will lead you to it.”

Greg followed him out of the church and past the older graves. They walked towards some conifer trees. The reverend paused, led them slightly further away from the church, and then stopped.

Greg stared down at the tiny stone, with ‘Connie Knight’ the only writing on it. The grass was overgrown around it. There was a splodge of red graffiti on the top.

“I’m sorry about the graffiti,” the reverend said. “We had some trouble with teenagers earlier in the year.”

Greg nodded. “It’s alright.”

“I will leave you. If you need anything else, don’t hesitate to find me.”

The reverend walked away and Greg knelt down to pull some of the old plants out of the ground and throw them to the side. He frowned and looked around at the other headstones. They looked so much bigger. So much more important.

Like Connie Knight was insignificant. Like she hadn’t quite done enough to deserve a headstone with anything but her name on it. It was probably all they could afford, Greg thought. He sighed, tightened his scarf, and walked away.

 

* * *

 

Greg searched for headstones on the internet. He was convinced she deserved better than that piece of graffiti-covered stone.

Eventually, he found one he liked and paid for it.

Two weeks later, it was in place.

He and Mycroft walked from the car and through the cemetery together, gloved-covered hands clasped together as they took each synchronised step. The grass was crisp underfoot, frost beginning to settle in. Greg nodded towards the headstone and they wandered towards it.

They stopped in front of it. Mycroft squeezed his hand.

“It’s better,” Greg murmured, reaching forward to brush a leaf off the top. “More fitting.”

“It’s perfect, Greg,” Mycroft said.

“I should say something,” Greg said, frowning.

“You don’t have to.”

“That’s what people do. They say something. But I don’t know what.”

They stood in silence together, looking down at the stone bearing Connie Knight’s name.

She had protected him. She had been brave, so brave, and given her life for what she thought was right. And in Greg’s eyes, her testifying against Jerry Whitehead had been right. But it was also the greatest sacrifice.

For years, Greg believed his parents must have both died in an accident. Or that they’d hated him and abandoned him. Or that they were criminals or addicts or downright awful people. One half of them had been. But Connie. He was proud to have her DNA. He was proud to be her son.

She had saved his life, Greg was sure of it. She had lost both her parents, but she had still done the right thing. How could he find the words to express just how much he owed her? And how sorry he was for not finding out sooner.

“Would you allow me?” Mycroft finally asked, little puffs of breath visible in the cold air.

“Sure.”

Mycroft was quiet then. His lips were pressed together, lost in thought. Finally, he spoke. “You did a wonderful job protecting your son,” he said softly. “And I promise to do the same. Whatever it takes.”

Greg glanced at him and smiled. He nudged him gently. “Yeah, and I’ll look after you too.” They looked at each other. Greg kissed him sweetly. “Whatever it takes,” he added quietly. 


	60. One Good Day Will Lead The Way For Another

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have so, so, so many thank yous to give, and I hope you'll forgive me for not doing so tonight because basically I've drunk too much wine and need to sleep! But I will get to it and thank you and lots of hugs and love!

_October, 2012_

On the weekend of Mycroft’s birthday, Greg picked him up from Crusader House on the Friday evening. He drove them both to Cambridge where they enjoyed a candlelit meal at a grill restaurant before spending the night at a hotel by the river.

After breakfast, they visited the Sedgwick Museum Of Earth Sciences. Greg had researched all the places with dinosaurs in the UK and it had seemed like the best place for dinosaur specimens outside of the Natural History Museum.

They sat with the curator who showed off the specimens from behind the scenes. Mycroft was enchanted, handling items with care and listening intently.

He had plenty of knowledge himself of course, and Greg sat listening to the conversation. In the afternoon, after a proper look around the museum, they took a walk through the city, stopping for some delicatessens on the way.

When the rain, which had been threatening all day, finally began they went into a pub, sitting with some drinks by the window as they watched the world go by.

Mycroft bought their second round of drinks and came back with the menus. Greg squinted at it. “Why do they write these so small?”

Mycroft chuckled. “Greg, you need glasses.”

“I don’t need glasses,” Greg said, turning the page and squinting again. “They’ve just written this really tiny in a ridiculous squiggly font.”

“Why does getting glasses bother you so much?” Mycroft asked.

Greg looked up at him. He wasn’t bothered at the prospect of glasses. Except he was. A bit. And Mycroft always understood the problem before it had registered in Greg’s mind. Damn him. “I’m not,” Greg said.

Mycroft raised his eyebrows before returning to his menu.

Greg sighed. “It’s just age, isn’t it? I’m the wrong side of 45 next month. It’s alright for you, you’re younger than me.”

Mycroft looked back at him, eyeing him for a moment before speaking. “It’s just a pair of glasses so you don’t need to squint.”

“It’s a sign my eyesight’s going. It’ll be my hearing next. I’m already grey.”

“You look very distinguished.”

“Distinguished,” Greg muttered. “Great.”

“What’s wrong with that?” Mycroft asked.

“What’s right with it?”

Mycroft smiled. “How content were you when you were half your age?”

“When I was about 22?”

“Yes.”

Greg frowned. Soon-to-be-married. Just got a job in the force, albeit with a two year probation period. He and Caroline could barely afford the rent. Young and in love but definitely naïve. Well, he was happier now. More secure than ever. He pursed his lips. “Fine,” he muttered.

“What’s fine?” Mycroft asked.

“The point you were trying to prove,” Greg said. “You’re right.”

Mycroft smiled and stroked his hand. “If it helps, I’m sure you’ll suit glasses.”

Greg smiled. “I might not withhold your birthday present then.”

“You’ve given me more than enough already,” Mycroft said, though he was smiling as Greg laced their fingers together on top of the table.

“I’m making up for your last birthday when I didn’t send you anything.”

“I deserved it,” Mycroft said. A time when they hadn’t spoken seemed like a lifetime ago, but Greg really had hated Mycroft a bit this time last year. A lot had changed since then.

Greg grinned. “Yeah, you did, but I’ll make it up anyway.”

Mycroft smiled. “What are you having to eat?”

“Burger and chips.”

Mycroft stood up, trailing his fingers against Greg’s arm as he walked to the bar. They spent several hours in that place. There was still plenty to discuss about Sherlock’s case. They spent many hours devising plans, with an understanding only two people on the same wavelength could have.

They went back to the hotel where Mycroft attended to some work and Greg watched the football in the bar. At 10.12pm, he joined Mycroft in their room. Mycroft was still working on the sofa when he got upstairs, and he kissed the top of his head.

“How’s the world?” Greg asked.

“Spinning,” Mycroft replied, sighing in appreciation at the contact.

“Will it spin without you for a little while?” Greg asked.

Mycroft smiled up at him, reaching up to touch the light stubble Greg had let grow over the past few days. “Yes, I suppose it might take care of itself. What have you got in mind?”

“Birthday presents,” Greg replied with a grin.

“Plural?” Mycroft asked, closing his laptop. “You spoil me.”

Greg smiled and grabbed his suitcase, pulling out a bag. “I tried my best.” He took a seat beside him, stealing a kiss. He took a black box from the bag and handed it over. Mycroft smiled and opened it to look at the selection of miniature bottles of whiskey, from all over Scotland.

Mycroft read all of the labels. “These are wonderful, thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Greg said. “So, I also got you this…” Greg handed Mycroft a dark blue box. “Anthea advised me on them,” Greg admitted as Mycroft carefully took the two pens out and studied them. “They’re different colours. Because I know you prefer writing in black. But it’s useful to have a decent red pen.”

“How did you know I prefer writing in black?” Mycroft asked.

“You’re not the only observant one,” Greg said with a smile. “Are they alright?”

“They’re perfect.”

“One more,” Greg said, reaching into the bag. He pulled out the handcuffs. Mycroft stared at him. “Remember the conversation?” Greg asked.

“Yes,” Mycroft said as he flicked out his tongue to wet his lips. “Yes, every second.”

Greg shuffled along the sofa, reaching out to touch Mycroft’s knee. He slid his hand higher up his leg, running his fingers along the inside of Mycroft’s thigh. Mycroft caught his breath as they held each other’s eyes.

“You can have me,” Greg whispered, leaning forward to press his lips to Mycroft’s jaw. “However you want. Or I’ll have you however you want. It’s your birthday.”

“It’s an extraordinary gift,” Mycroft said.

Greg grinned. “It’s just a pair of cuffs.”

“No,” Mycroft said. “Being loved by you.”

Greg stared at him for a moment, frozen to the spot in the sincerity of Mycroft’s words. It was Mycroft who made the first move, closing his hand over Greg’s cheek and kissing him fiercely. Greg matched his kiss with unhesitating fervour.

Mycroft eased him down onto his back, their mouths never separating. Greg wrapped his legs around his hips, letting Mycroft lay between his legs so neither man was left in any doubt of how aroused the other was.

Mycroft’s teeth scraped against the sensitive skin on Greg’s neck, lips and tongue tracing over the same line with gentle caresses. Soothing every nip with tenderness. Greg curled his fingers in Mycroft’s hair, pulling him up for another kiss.

They rocked their hips together, drawing gasps from them both. “Bed,” Greg breathed out and Mycroft grasped for the handcuffs in response.

They shared another kiss before Mycroft rose from the sofa, holding out his hand to help Greg up too. Their lips met and Mycroft lifted Greg’s t-shirt, the backs of his fingers brushing against Greg’s skin. Greg wordlessly lifted his arms, letting Mycroft pull the garment off.

Greg stood still, breathing hard under Mycroft’s scrutinising gaze. Mycroft’s hands came to rest on Greg’s shoulders. They slid down his arms, his thumbs rubbing against the insides of his elbows and then lower still before pressing firmly, but not painfully, into his wrists.

Mycroft wrapped his long fingers around one wrist, letting go of the other as he walked around Greg, wrapping Greg’s arm around his back. He took hold of Greg’s other arm then, holding his wrists behind Greg’s back in both hands as he trailed kisses along Greg’s shoulder blades.

Shuddering, Greg closed his eyes, concentrating on the gentle touches against oft-neglected skin.

Mycroft’s tongue moved with his lips against Greg’s neck, and Greg gasped, his whole body trembling as Mycroft worked him over with soft touches before contrasting it with a sharp nip with his teeth. Greg cried out, opening his eyes and Mycroft’s hold on his wrists tightened only a little.

“Lock your hands together,” Mycroft said, and Greg did as he was told.

Mycroft’s hands released his wrists and he pressed his chest against Greg’s back. His arms wound around him, unfastening Greg’s belt and pulling it out of the loops of his jeans. Greg was acutely aware of Mycroft’s every breath, hot against his neck. His shirt was soft against Greg’s back.

Dexterous fingers worked Greg’s zip open, and Mycroft loosened his trousers, dipping one hand underneath the waistband to cup Greg’s cock through his boxers. Greg gasped, pinching his eyes shut. “Perfect,” Mycroft whispered against the shell of his ear before rewarding him with a light squeeze with his hand before he pulled it back out of Greg’s jeans.

Greg mourned the loss, even as Mycroft began to push down his jeans and the fabric brushed against his straining erection.

Greg stepped out of them, even more aware of Mycroft’s fully-clothed state compared to himself, just stood in his socks and boxers, holding his own hands behind his back.

“I want to watch you walk towards the bed,” Mycroft said, his hands holding Greg’s hips from behind. “Lie down on your back and when you’re ready, take hold of the headboard.”

“Yes,” Greg replied as Mycroft stepped back. He swallowed and shuffled over to the bed. He knelt down on the side, certain he could feel Mycroft’s eyes on him as he went. He sat down.

“You may take your socks off,” Mycroft said.

Greg glanced at him before doing so, lying down onto his back. He closed his eyes for around a minute, breathing in deeply. He turned his head to the side, to see Mycroft, so obviously overcome with want.

It wasn’t about submission when Greg lifted his hands and wrapped his fingers around two of the struts on the headboard. It was about trust. Mycroft strolled towards the bed then, kneeling down beside Greg. He leaned over to kiss him, deep and sensual, their tongues meeting with an ease crafted over almost a year together.

Mycroft took the handcuffs then, affixing Greg’s wrists to the headboard. He kissed each hand in turn before unfastening his own tie. Greg watched him, testing the cuffs.

“Do you trust me?” Mycroft asked.

“Always,” Greg replied, their eyes locked together.

Mycroft leaned forward, covering Greg’s eyes with his tie. “How is this?” Mycroft asked.

“Good,” Greg whispered, closing his eyes. “Good, it’s good.”

“Lift your head.”

Greg did so without question, holding it in the air as Mycroft covered Greg’s eyes with the tie - the knot fastened on the side of Greg’s head so he would not have it uncomfortably resting underneath him.

Mycroft’s lips found his, and it was reassuring to feel them and the outpouring of adoration Mycroft managed to convey with his mouth. Greg groaned into the kiss, his body relaxing. Mycroft began to trail his lips down Greg’s throat and down the centre of his chest, in a straight, direct line.

Greg shuddered, every brush of Mycroft’s fingers against his skin, more heightened than ever. He felt every dip in the bed each time Mycroft moved. He arched into Mycroft’s breath, hot against his thigh as he slowly began to draw down Greg’s boxers, leaving him naked and exposed across the bed.

Greg lay still.

He could hear his own breathing, but somewhere along the line he had lost track of exactly where Mycroft was.

He licked his lips. He waited.

One of Mycroft’s fingers touched his ankle and Greg shuddered, surprised by the sudden contact in an area he wasn’t expecting. His leg was lifted off the bed a little, and a finger stroked down the arch of his foot.

Mycroft was in his element, Greg supposed. He could take all the time he could ever dream of, touch Greg wherever he wanted and record his every reaction in that unbelievable brain of his.

And that was amazing to Greg. That he had a lover who was able to discover and recall every inch of Greg’s body and how it made him react. But that he also had a lover who wanted to.

Mycroft’s hands remained on his feet and ankles, dipping between his toes, making him laugh, making him groan as his calves were massaged. Soft hands with precise fingers dipped under his knees, stroking the soft skin beneath them. They moved upwards then, followed by gentle kisses and hums of approval, as Mycroft stroked the insides of Greg’s thighs.

It was like heaven. Those touches to intimate areas, those zones on Greg’s body that didn’t just turn him on but relaxed him completely.

Mycroft continued his exploration with kisses and licks against Greg’s groin, avoiding his cock, and then to his stomach, through the hair there. More kisses up Greg’s chest, until a tongue swirled around his nipple.

Greg was shaking. On the edge. Mycroft’s tongue was spreading ripples of pleasure through his body and he wanted, needed, craved just so much more, like he would never have enough.

Mycroft’s tongue continued to flick against his nipple, while he rubbed the other with his fingers, before swapping. Sensitive to the touch, every area of Greg’s body was waiting for a light pressure of tongue, lips or fingers. He hardly knew where to expect it.

He was arching off the bed, Mycroft’s fingers still exploring the different ways to tease his nipples. He was pressing up, trying to make some sort of contact with his cock, hardly knowing where Mycroft’s lips might go next.

One firm, but reassuring hand rested over Greg’s heart. “Easy,” Mycroft murmured, brushing his lips against Greg’s and - oh. It was a kiss Greg sunk into. He couldn’t see Mycroft’s face, but he was sure he could feel the sheer devotion and desire behind it. Every press of their mouths felt like they were being drawn closer to one another.

Behind Mycroft’s tie, it really felt like it was only them in the entire universe. It was silent except for their breaths, the sound of kisses, the hums and the gasps.

Mycroft’s mouth began to trail down Greg’s throat, and he felt a sense of loss for the kiss for only a moment, before Mycroft’s hand wrapped around his cock. He felt it in the tips of his toes, in the tingles right along his arms.

So lost, riding every wave of pleasure, rocking his hips as Mycroft’s hand stroked his cock.

And then the loss as it was withdrawn. Only for those wonderful long fingers to move elsewhere, to dip down past his balls and between his legs, stroking his perineum.

Greg spread his legs wider, granting him access. Mycroft’s tongue swiped against his hole and he felt like he could feel it everywhere.

Light strokes of Mycroft’s tongue were replaced with flicks and hard swipes and then more gentle again. Greg was writhing and groaning and saying words he hardly recognised, but they were lost to his ears. He had let go of any conscious thought, completely and utterly. He was surrounded in the knowledge of Mycroft, close and beautiful, though he could not see him.

His tongue was replaced by two fingers, and Greg granted access to them easily, rolling his hips and allowing Mycroft to tease and prepare him with slow, drawn-out strokes.

The sheer need to have Mycroft was too great, and Greg was begging for him. Pleases, and nows, and murmurs of Mycroft’s name all left Greg’s lips while Mycroft’s fingers, as skilled and perfect as they were, were never enough.

He wanted him. He wanted all of him, for the rest of his life.

And he wanted Mycroft to see it, to feel it and most of all - to know it.

When Mycroft’s hard cock finally pushed inside, Greg saw stars behind the silky tie. He groaned and cried out against Mycroft’s lips as they kissed, desperate then soft then frantic.

Mycroft brushed the tie from Greg’s eyes, and he took some time to adjust to the light. To adjust to the intense gaze above him as Mycroft rolled his hips and took Greg with shallow thrusts and loving kisses.

He drew Greg closer to the edge with every second that passed.

Mycroft had never appeared so utterly human as he did now. There was no hesitance in the love in his eyes, no mask, no hiding. It was pure, perfect, forever.

There were no doubts. There was no fear. It was making love in the truest sense Greg had ever experienced, and they came together, kissing sweetly and whispering each other’s names.

Mycroft rested on Greg’s body. Greg longed to wrap his arms around him, but he let Mycroft lie there, matching his every inhale and exhale.

After several minutes, Mycroft unfastened the cuffs and let them fall onto the floor. He took hold of Greg’s wrists, kissing and caressing them. Greg reached for him, drawing him close. This most enigmatic man he’d ever known. This man who knew him better than he knew himself.

They gazed at each other, still holding on.

“I know,” Greg whispered, kissing him and responding to those unsaid words, so needless when everything was all so clear.

 

* * *

 

_November, 2012_

He sat in the corridor waiting. He’d been here a few times, sat staring at the Commander’s PA. He’d met Commander Lucille Wheeler for the first time last week, and they had a three hour interview, discussing the Detective Chief Inspector role. Greg thought it had been okay, but he wasn’t sure of anything much.

Eventually he was asked to go in. Commander Wheeler was at least punctual, unlike her predecessor. Greg walked in and shook hands with her.

“Detective Inspector Lestrade,” she said, gesturing to the chair. “Please, sit down. Get comfortable. Do you want a drink?”

“No, but thanks,” he said.

She smiled at him. “Right, well. Let’s get started shall we? You interview well.”

Greg nodded, fidgeting a bit in the chair. He had an inkling she was going to let him down gently here. “Thanks.”

“The thing is,” she started, “that stuff with Sherlock Holmes and the suspension… I joined the Met after that. But I can’t pretend it’s not a factor in our decision.”

Greg nodded. Or maybe not so gently. “Sure, of course.”

Commander Wheeler looked at a piece of paper on her desk. “There were some very good applicants for the role,” she said. “Ones with worse crime solve rates, admittedly. But ones with less trouble behind them. One saving grace for you is the press never really got wind of who you are and your involvement in the Sherlock affair. One of our outstanding applicants came from outside the Met, and I was very tempted to give them the job. But I bumped into a someone in the cafeteria.”

Greg frowned at her. “Okay?”

“He advised me to find out what your colleagues think of you before I made my mind up. So, I did. I spoke to your close colleagues. I spoke to some of your former colleagues. I spoke to forensics, and the folks in I.T and the reception staff and the PCs you rarely come into contact with. Do you know what they said?”

“No,” Greg murmured.

She picked a piece of paper up. “Loyal. Kind. Generous with his time. Friendly. Trustworthy. Has a bit of a temper sometimes, but he always means well. The best DI I’ve ever worked under, and I’ve worked under four. The best cop at the Met, hands down. A bit of an idiot. Dedicated. Hard-working. Works too hard. Smart. Kind. A good listener. No one has ever supported me like he has. If you have a problem, Lestrade will always listen and he will talk to you for hours if that’s what it takes. He’s had his problems, but everyone respects him. He makes me proud to be a police officer.”

Greg stared at her, as she read out every sentence. She held the piece of paper out. “You might like to keep this, it’s quite lovely,” she said. Greg nodded and took it from her, glancing down at the notes. “Your colleagues respect you,” Commander Wheeler said. “And they respect you despite your suspension.”

Greg bit his lip. “Thank you.”

She smiled. “Don’t make me regret my decision, Lestrade. Congratulations. The job is yours.”

Greg almost laughed. He reigned it in, grinning slowly. “Thank you,” he said.

The Commander stood up and held her hand out. “Your office will be yours in two weeks time. Your contract is already in the post.”

Greg stood and shook her hand. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” she said with a smile. “Oh. And you might want to drop a thank you to Detective Inspector Carter at some point for his little pointer in the cafe.”

Greg smiled and nodded. “Carter?” That was a surprise, but a nice one. “Right. Yeah, I will. I will.”

Shaking his head, he wandered out of the office. He leaned against the wall and took a deep breath. He grabbed his phone and text Mycroft.

 

MESSAGES  
1.47pm: I got the job. Bloody.  
Hell. I. Got. The. Job. Love you!!!

 

MESSAGES Mycroft Holmes  
1.57pm: Congratulations. That is the  
best thing I have heard all week.  
I will bring some champagne home.  
See you at Crusader House this evening?

 

MESSAGES  
2.01pm: Can’t wait. See you later.

 

They enjoyed a three course meal at one of Mycroft’s favourite restaurants, eating steak and drinking champagne to celebrate.

 

* * *

 

Greg’s birthday started with Mycroft. They were curled up in bed together when the alarm went off and Mycroft groaned, rolling over to turn it off. Greg drew him into a closed-mouthed kiss before turning over onto his back. “Bloody work,” he muttered, rubbing his eyes.

“One more day, and we have all weekend,” Mycroft said, kissing his cheek and sliding out of the covers. Greg opened his eyes again to watch as Mycroft wandered naked to the cupboard and took out his dressing gown, pulling it on. “Happy birthday,” Mycroft added.

Greg smiled and rolled over to rest his head on Mycroft’s pillow. “Cheers. When’s the reservation for?”

“8pm.”

Greg nodded and closed his eyes, yawning. He still had another hour before he had to get up. He listened to the sound of the shower, but when he woke up again, Mycroft had already left for the day.

It was his third day in his new job and he had just begun to settle into his new office. The venus fly trap plant seemed to be enjoying itself in the new room and Greg was beginning to find a rhythm, slowly but surely.

After lunch, Greg wandered back to his office with Dimmock in tow. “We need another PC in our department,” Dimmock said.

“It’s not up to me,” Greg said, opening the door. “You need to take it up with…” He frowned as he looked at his desk. There was a present on top of it, with a card. Greg wandered over and opened the card.

“What’s that?” Dimmock asked.

“Birthday presents,” Greg murmured, smiling as he read the card. ‘Ask not what your police officer can do for you. Ask what you can do for your police officer’. Greg grinned and opened it.

 

_Happy birthday Greg,_

_I hope you will consider the offer on the front of the card. Ask for anything you want this evening._

_Yours,_

_Mycroft._

 

Greg smiled and put the card down.

“Who’s it from?” Dimmock asked.

“My partner,” Greg said.

“I didn’t know you were seeing anyone,” Dimmock said with a frown. He picked the card up from the table and opened it. Greg rolled his eyes and sat down. “Mycroft?” Dimmock asked.

“Yeah,” Greg said.

“You’re seeing a bloke.”

Greg crossed his arms. “Problem, Dimmock?”

“It’s a bit…” Dimmock put the card down.

“Bit what?” Greg asked irritably.

“I swear you married a woman. Twice.”

Greg nodded. “Yeah. So?”

Dimmock pulled a face. “So, what, you were straight and now you’re gay?”

“No, I’m bisexual,” Greg said, rolling his eyes. “As fun as this conversation about my personal life is, can we talk about something else?”

“Does everyone know you’re gay?”

“Bisexual,” Greg muttered. “And yes, everyone who needs to know does know.”

“And they don’t care?”

“Why should they care? You got a problem with it?”

Dimmock stared at him. “No. No. No, of course not,” he said quickly. “I’ll uh… I’ll go then, shall I?”

“Yes,” Greg growled at him. “I think that might be for the best.”

Dimmock left quickly and Greg shook his head, forcing himself to ignore it. He turned his attention to the present. He smiled when he ripped off the paper and looked at the watch with two faces. The note enclosed said everything Greg had already suspected. It was one clock for him, and another for Mycroft when he was abroad.

He replaced his old tatty watch and put on his new one, already looking forward to that night.

He attended a crime scene with Sally, observing rather than participating. He wanted to see how they all worked, especially with a new PC on the team now Piper was on maternity leave after years of trying for a baby, and her subsequent IVF treatment.

Greg wanted to see if everyone was working to their full potential. And he wanted to see how they would settle with his less direct involvement.

“Got plans for tonight?” Sally asked as she walked out of the building with him.

“Dinner with Mycroft,” he said with a smile.

“Somewhere fancy?”

“Probably,” Greg said with a grin. “We’ve got a couple of days off too.” They drove back together, discussing the case when they both fell silent and heard the announcement on the radio.

“We have breaking news this afternoon that there has been a suspected terrorist attack in Hamburg in Germany,” the BBC presenter said. “The current death toll is unknown but is suspected to-”

Greg heard his phone go off. “Can you answer that?” he asked Sally.

“It’s Mycroft,” she said, when she picked up the phone.

“Answer it,” Greg told her.

“Hi, Greg’s phone.” Greg glanced at her. “Hi, yeah, it’s Sally. I’ll tell him. Cheers.” She hung up. “You need to call Mycroft when we get back to the station.”

Calling Mycroft was the first thing he did when they got back to the Yard. “Hey,” he said, closing the door to his office.

“Greg,” Mycroft murmured. “This matter in Hamburg. I am so sorry, I have to cancel our reservation, I’m needed here.”

“Hey, hey, it’s alright,” Greg said. “I understand.”

“They suspect it was a British man,” Mycroft murmured. “We were tracking him and we lost him. And now… he was part of Moriarty’s network.”

Greg frowned. “Shit. What did he want in Hamburg?”

“Come to Crusader House after work. I do want to see you, and we will still have the weekend.”

“Of course I will,” Greg told him.

“I need to go.”

“Mycroft. Thank you for the watch. I love it.”

“You’re welcome. I’m sorry. See you tonight.”

“See you later, love. And it’s alright.”

Greg didn’t bother leaving work until 9.17pm, and when he got to Crusader House, he wasn’t surprised to see Mycroft wasn’t back yet.

He ordered them some Thai food from a place he knew Mycroft liked and poured himself a glass of red wine, settling on the sofa with the news.

The blast had been horrific. The death toll was 136 and rising.

Mycroft got home before the food arrived. Greg looked over the back of the sofa at him as he put his umbrella in the stand, hung up his coat and scarf and took his gloves off. His face was impassive, but his eyes looked lost.

Greg didn’t move from the sofa but he extended his arm out over the back of it, and Mycroft wandered over and took his hand in his own. Greg squeezed his fingers.

“Thai food is on the way,” Greg said, taking a moment to study him properly. “Do you want any of this wine?”

Mycroft nodded and let go of his hand. “Please.”

Greg poured him a glass while Mycroft walked into the bedroom. Greg bit his lip. He hadn’t seen Mycroft like this in quite a while, and he was never entirely sure if he was doing the right thing for him.

Mycroft was still in the bedroom when the food arrived and Greg dished it up and laid the table.

Mycroft joined him after a little while, finishing the first glass of wine quickly while they ate in comfortable silence.

“You’re wearing the watch,” Mycroft murmured.

“Yeah,” Greg said with a smile. “Both clocks are on GMT time, so that’s nice.”

Mycroft nodded. “I thought you might like it.”

“I do.” Greg topped up their wine glasses. “What do you need?” he asked, looking straight across at Mycroft.

Mycroft sighed, leaning forward to rest his chin against his hands. “I don’t know,” he said. “We didn’t predict this. But with the link to Moriarty, we should have seen it coming.”

“God,” Greg muttered. “I thought we were done with bloody Moriarty.” He had a big gulp of his wine.

Mycroft just nodded. “I might have a bath. I need some time.”

Greg smiled at him. “Go for it.”

“This must be the worst birthday imaginable,” Mycroft said, topping his wine glass up.

“I’m with you,” Greg said, watching as Mycroft rose from his seat. “It’s a good birthday, whatever happens.”

Mycroft bent down to kiss the top of Greg’s head. “I’ll be with you shortly.”

“Take all the time you need,” Greg said. “I’ll be around.”

He watched as Mycroft left the room with a second bottle of wine and sighed. Bloody terrorists, he thought. He washed up the dishes and dried them before settling on the sofa.

He found a documentary about The Battle Of Britain, and he settled down to watch with the bottle of wine. Mycroft joined him an hour later, his hair still damp. He looked more relaxed now, dressed in a shirt and casual trousers and black socks, his bottom lip stained purple from the wine. The frown hadn’t eased, but he managed a smile.

Greg smiled back. He poured them both another glass of wine as he stretched out along the sofa, putting his legs on Mycroft’s lap. He sipped his wine, his mind on a bit of a delay as he took stock of the amount of alcohol he’d had. His head felt light and easy, his body relaxed against the cushions.

“This is the life,” he murmured as Mycroft flicked through the film channels before settling on the news.

“I’m rather drunk,” Mycroft said, frowning into his glass. “I hardly noticed it was happening and now it’s overwhelming.”

“Easy explanation for that,” Greg said. “You drank lots of those glasses there.”

“Yes. That would explain everything.”

Greg laughed, lighting up a cigarette. He had one drag before passing it to Mycroft. They never smoked indoors usually, but being drunk on the sofa on Greg’s birthday when Mycroft had one of his worst days at work since they got together seemed as good an occasion as any.

“What is it all for?” Mycroft asked as he frowned at the television. Greg glanced at it as the pictures continued to roll of the decimated buildings and the flames.

“What’s what for?” Greg asked.

Mycroft gestured with his hand. “The destruction and misery. What’s the point?”

“I don’t know,” Greg said, taking the cigarette back from him. “I don’t know if anything is done for any real reason.”

“People,” Mycroft muttered. “They’re so…”

“Stupid?”

“I was going to suggest unreasonable.”

Greg sighed. “Seems like an understatement in the circumstances.”

“Yes, it does.”

Greg frowned, watching as the camera panned through a makeshift hospital with children lying in beds, some with awful injuries. He nodded towards the screen. “Is that what it’s for?” he asked.

“Children?” Mycroft asked, frowning at him.

“Yeah,” Greg said. “About making a better world for kids. Even if their version of a better world doesn’t match up with anyone else’s.”

“Perhaps.”

Greg stumped the cigarette out on the top of his empty beer can. Greg studied him for a moment. “Do you… do you want kids?” he asked, before he had even had time to properly consider the question or its repercussions.

Mycroft narrowed his eyes a fraction, but hardly reacted otherwise. “I never really considered it to be a possibility,” he said.

Greg nodded and sipped his wine.

“Living things are genetically programmed to reproduce,” Mycroft said. “The continuation of their DNA and family line is important, though animals don’t recognise their carnal needs are created simply to continue the species. Humans are animals, so I suppose the majority have that need somewhere along the line.”

“Not really an answer,” Greg said.

“I’m working it through in my mind. Usually I would do this in my head, but the alcohol’s making me speak aloud.”

Greg laughed. “Carry on then.”

“Do I want children?” Mycroft asked. “I never thought I would meet someone to have one with. Since it appeared to be so unlikely, I erased it as a subject to think about at all. I mean, if you consider it for a moment. Homosexual acts only became legal in the UK a year after you were born, but the age of consent was 21. It was only in 2001 that it was reduced to 16.”

“Hang on, what?” Greg frowned. “The age of consent was 21 until 2001? So when I first had sex with a bloke, it wasn’t legal?”

“Correct.”

“Huh. Wow, I had a lot of illegal sex.”

Mycroft managed a smile. “As did I.”

“So. Kids weren’t on the radar because being gay was still… well, discriminated against?”

“Yes,” Mycroft said. “And now…”

“And now?”

“The honest answer is I don’t know about children. Financially and practically I suppose I could offer everything one would need, and the relationship I have with you indicates I could perhaps provide the emotional stability and understanding too. But knowing what I know about the world and about people in it, can I ever justify bringing one into the world? I’m not so sure.”

“Are you logic-ing yourself out of it?” Greg asked him.

“Wrong choice of words. There is not logic in acting on some of the basic desires of being human. I want to survive, so I must eat. That’s simple. But must I have children? Well, that depends. Ultimately humans want children to continue the species, but on a much smaller scale, it’s to continue the family line. You and I are each the end of our respective lines. I always suspected Sherlock was not one to have children of his own, so I always knew it would fall to me.”

“Not really an answer,” Greg said.

“I know. I don’t have one.”

“Neither do I,” Greg admitted. “I wasn’t fussed. Not with Caroline. And Jane never wanted them, she was happy with Louis.”

“Louis?”

“The dog.”

“Ah.”

They both turned their attention to the television.

“There’s got to be more to having children than that,” Greg said. “Something more than just a need to carry on a line.”

“Has there?” Mycroft asked, looking at him.

“I think people have kids because they think there’s got to be a point to their lives,” Greg said.

“Is that why you’re bringing this up? Because your life won’t have a point if you don’t have children?”

“No. I dunno. I never 100 per cent ruled it out, it just wasn’t something I thought about.”

“And now?”

Greg shrugged. “Dion Martin,” he said.

“I’m sorry?”

“If Dion Martin didn’t make a good life for himself and have a kid of his own and just spent his life in and out of prison, I think I would have needed kids. To prove I did something good and worthwhile. But I made a difference to him. I guess I needed to remember what it was like to do something right, especially after Sherlock.”

“You have made a difference to many people, not least myself.”

“So, kids?” Greg asked.

Mycroft hesitated, turning back to the news. “No,” he said quietly. “I can’t.”

Greg nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, it’s no for me too.”

Mycroft frowned a little before looking round at Greg. “Perhaps a cat?”

“Yeah,” Greg said with a smile. “Maybe a cat.”

He swung his legs around and shuffled closer to Mycroft. “Turn the telly off. You don’t need to watch anymore of this, it’s not helping.”

“I know,” Mycroft said. He turned to the screen. “But it’s a good reminder of why we do the things we do.”

“Why who does what things?”

“You and I. That there are still people who need protecting in the world.”

Greg nodded and wrapped his arm around his shoulders, pulling him in close. “It’s not your fault,” he whispered. “You can’t control everything.”

Mycroft smiled a fraction. “What silly person told you that?”

“You.”

Mycroft turned his head and kissed him. “Take me to bed, Greg.”

“With pleasure.”

Greg stood up and held his hand out. Mycroft accepted it and they walked to bed together.

Sometime in the night, they were woken by Mycroft’s mobile phone. Mycroft rolled over and picked it up.

“Hello?” he answered sleepily. He sat up. Greg opened his eyes to look at him. “Oh thank God,” Mycroft whispered. “What are you doing now? No, no, you can’t… Trepoff? Are you sure?”

Greg groaned, rolling onto his side. He’d definitely had too much wine.

“Very well,” Mycroft said quietly. “Stay in touch. Throw that phone away as soon as you can.” He hung up. “Apologies,” he whispered, lying back down and spooning up behind Greg.

“No worries,” Greg said. “Everything good?”

“Yes,” Mycroft whispered. “Yes, it is for now.”

 

* * *

 

After his birthday, Greg finally relented and got glasses. His paperwork became a lot easier after that.

 

* * *

 

 

_December 2012_

Anderson returned to work at the start of the month. He was greeted with enthusiasm, but without too many questions. News travelled fast about what had happened, and although things had significantly improved over the years, Greg still didn’t think mental health was dealt with well within the force.

But it was good to see him back. He still seemed quiet and withdrawn. But clearly the medical experts had seen fit that he came back, and that was all that mattered to Greg.

Then there was the bank robbery.

£1.2million stolen. It was an enormous case, one Greg would have associated with Moriarty had he known any better. But of course he was dead now.

He was browsing CCTV footage - or lack of - with PC Leon Henman when he heard a commotion coming from the main bank room. Greg frowned. There was press outside for fuck’s sake, the least everyone could do was keep it orderly.

When he walked through, he found the head of forensics red-faced and raging about incompetence.

“Hang on, hang on,” Greg said, storming over to him. “Can you calm it the fuck down please?”

The head of forensics turned to him. “Well, if someone hadn’t fucked up the forensics then I would be calm, wouldn’t I?”

Greg frowned at him. “What you going on about?”

“The forensics have been compromised, Lestrade.”

Those words hit him like a tonne of bricks. Greg stared. “Please tell me you’re joking.”

“Wish I was, but I’m not.”

“Jesus,” Greg muttered. “Does no one get how big this bloody case is?”

“We get it, Lestrade. And now you know why I’m raging.”

“Who?” Greg asked.

“Anderson was in charge,” the head of forensics informed him.

“He’s the best we’ve got are you sure about that?” Greg asked, crossing his arms.

“I’m positive.”

Greg just didn’t know what to say. “Where’s he gone?” he asked.

“I’ve sent him back to the Yard.”

Greg nodded. “Salvage what you can?”

“Promise,” the man said.

 

* * *

 

Greg twiddled his thumbs as he stared across at the rows of journalists three days later for a press conference. He hadn’t had to do one of these since he was suspended. There had been some interest in his new job, and he had done a few interviews for local papers. Those one-on-ones had been preferable to staring at the rows of sharks, all ready to feast on him.

“Have you made any progress in discovering the identity of the criminals?” the first reporter asked.

“Not yet,” Greg said. “But we’re working on it.”

“Do you have any leads?”

“There’s always leads. There’s always something to follow up.”

“Was there any forensics evidence on the scene?” the same reporter questioned.

“In a manner of speaking.”

“What manner?”

Greg sighed. “Look, there is plenty to go on. I know it looks like we’re falling behind, but I assure you, this is a well-organised investigation. We’re leaving no stones unturned.”

“And how many stones, exactly, do you have available to turn over?”

Greg frowned. “Not many, I’ll grant you. But we’re working on it.”

“So that’s your only answer? That you’re working on it? Surely that should be your job?”

“It is my job. We’re dealing with it.”

“Some have suggested you are in over your head, DCI Lestrade, and you are about to drown.”

Greg stared at the journalist. “Is there a question to go along with that?” Greg asked.

“Are you in over your head?”

“No.”

“Perhaps this is a little out of your comfort zone perhaps?”

“It’s not.”

“Then why has the investigation stalled so badly?”

Greg frowned. “We’re working on it.”

One journalist picked up her notebook. “So far, I have quotes from you saying you are dealing with it and working on it. Is the investigation going the right way or not?”

“It’s fine.”

“My sources tell me your forensics department cocked it up.”

Greg bit his lip. “What sources?”

“Are they wrong, Detective Chief Inspector?”

Greg stared around at them all. “Everyone working on this investigation has been thoroughly professional.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“Well, it’s all I’m giving you.”

 

* * *

 

_Bank Gang Leave Cops Clueless._

_Exclusive by Robbie Fraser._

_The future of Scotland Yard's Chief is once again plunged into uncertainty after one of the most audacious robberies in the capital's history failed to provide any leads._

_The investigation, detectives admit, has stalled after only a matter of days and the Forensic Science Service has been unable to furnish the investigators with any meaningful evidence._

_DCI Lestrade looked visibly shaken and tense in a press conference that disintegrated into a farce as he was unable to provide any meaningful answers._

_The lack of any worthwhile leads is a cause for serious embarrassment for the Yard, and Lestrade is bearing the public brunt of this utter failure._

_The taxpayer-funded shambles is another slap to the public face, as career criminals can walk in and out of banks, taking our money with impunity._

_While any decent citizen would expect the Police Force to deal with such a massive crime with an iron determination and winged speed, the sordid truth is that they are not fit for purpose._

_As the Police scramble blindly for more clues, the perpetrators of this daring heist are tonight laughing into their champers, quaffing their caviar between chortles of mirth, splitting their sides at the utter ineptitude of DCI Lestrade and his team._

_To measure it in football terms, this lot are Accrington Stanley. Who are they? Exactly!_

_After the shambolic press conference, we got in touch with the lily-livered keystone cops to try and find out for you, our readers, what exactly was going to be done about this criminal blight._

_And they did get back to us. You won't believe what they said._

_"We are unsure as to our next move."_

 

Greg slammed the newspaper down on Mycroft’s kitchen table. “Who the fuck do they think they are?”

“Hm?” Mycroft asked, looking up from his toast. Mycroft was still in his dressing gown, Greg having convinced him it was far too early to shower. Greg, by contrast, was just in a pair of shorts, Mycroft’s heaters spreading warmth around the flat compared to the frost outside.

“Bloody Magnussen and his newspapers,” Greg hissed. “And his lying, good-for-nothing journalists.”

Mycroft reached out and turned the newspaper around so he could read the story. He raised one eyebrow as he read it.

“What the hell does it mean ‘once again plunged into uncertainty?’” Greg fumed. “There was no other uncertainty.”

“Greg,” Mycroft murmured, looking up at him as Greg began to pace around the room.

“I hate press conferences. I hate the whole bloody lot of the press. Can you get Magnussen deported for… for… I don’t know. Lies and crimes against good journalism.”

“Hardly,” Mycroft said, taking a bite of his toast. “I’m sure you’re over-reacting.”

“Over-over reacting? Have you read this pile of shite?”

“Yes, I have,” Mycroft said. “Just now, in fact. You’ll solve the case, you always do.”

Greg frowned and went back to the counter to pour himself another coffee.

“It’s the weekend,” Mycroft said. “We’re supposed to be having a relaxing morning. Calm down.”

“I can’t be calm,” Greg said. “Not when everyone in London is reading that.”

“Not everyone, its circulation isn’t that high.”

Greg crossed his arms. “Mycroft,” he warned.

“Greg,” Mycroft replied easily, holding his stern gaze.

Greg sighed and gave in first. “Dammit,” he muttered, looking away and heading to the fridge to get some milk.

“We don’t need to go to the gathering this evening,” Mycroft said.

“Yeah we do. I’ll calm down, it’s fine.”

“Then are we still going shopping?”

“Yes, we’re still going shopping.” Greg sighed and looked across at him. “Remind me why we have to go to this gathering again?”

“To convince the Prime Minister’s closest allies that they want to invest £17million into a new security system for MI5,” Mycroft reminded him.

Greg groaned. “Of course we do.”

“It’s a Christmas party.”

“In which you’re going to convince people to spend millions of pounds so you have a new toy to play with.”

Mycroft quirked a smile. “A very useful toy.”

Greg managed a smile in return at that, walking around the table to kiss the top of Mycroft’s head. “You are ridiculous. And full of shit.”

Mycroft smiled up at him. “And you have quite a foul mouth, Greg Lestrade.”

Greg leaned over so his lips were inches from Mycroft’s. “You love it,” he murmured huskily.

Greg stayed still as Mycroft studied him for a moment. “You’re not going to,” Mycroft murmured, though he seemed unsure. “Not in the kitchen.”

“Aren’t I?” Greg asked, leaning forward and capturing his partner’s mouth with his. “It’s almost Christmas. And I want to give you something to think about tonight when you’re trying to put millions of hard-earned tax-payer pounds into your new play thing.”

Mycroft’s eyes darkened. “It would aid the police immeasurably,” he said, as Greg dropped down to his knees in front of him. Mycroft turned in his seat so Greg could kneel between his legs. “Perhaps it would have helped you catch those bank thieves.”

Greg hummed, stroking his hands along Mycroft’s thighs, pushing aside his dressing gown to where he was naked underneath. “Would it then?” Greg asked, before nibbling Mycroft’s thigh.

The man hitched a breath. “Yes.”

“Tell me,” Greg said, running a finger along Mycroft’s groin. “Tell me what it would do for you.”

“We would be able to keep an eye on suspected terrorists.” Mycroft gasped as Greg flicked his tongue against his balls. Greg smiled in response, drawing one into his mouth for a second before letting go.

“What else?” Greg asked, leaning forward to lick a slow line along Mycroft’s cock. “Don’t stop talking.”

Mycroft’s fingers curled in his hair and rested there, not tugging or pushing. “We would be able to concentrate on highly-prized targets. The Bank Of England. The Tower Of London. All of the banks.”

Greg flicked his tongue out against the head of Mycroft’s cock, swirling it around and tasting the salty pre-come there.

“Oh good lord,” Mycroft muttered, tipping his head back.

“Keep going,” Greg told him. “Convince me. Convince me like you would convince the Prime Minister.”

“National security,” Mycroft said, his breath more laboured now as Greg returned his mouth to his balls and stroked the insides of his thighs. “Evidence, both before and after the fact. And better tracking equipment… Greg.”

“C’mon,” Greg said, and he took the head of Mycroft’s cock in his mouth then, sucking gently, gazing up into Mycroft’s eyes.

“It records data,” Mycroft said, his lips parted. “It has… predictive equipment, so it knows where traffic collisions, murders, thefts are more likely to… Greg, please.”

Greg took him deep in his mouth, wrapping one hand around the base. He didn’t hold back, taking as much as he could, providing all the tight suction he could manage, his tongue flat against the underside.

He stared up at Mycroft’s face as he got lost in pleasure, one hand still curled in Greg’s hair, the other gripping the side of table.

Greg moved his head and hand simultaneously, with increasing speed. He felt Mycroft rock into his mouth a fraction, heard his delicious trembling gasp. Greg knew he was close, and he didn’t hold back even for a moment.

He hummed around Mycroft’s cock and swallowed as he came, accepting everything Mycroft gave.

He looked up at Mycroft as he released his cock from his mouth. Mycroft’s eyes were closed as he fought to regain his breath. Greg grinned and wiped the back of his mouth with his hand before standing up.

“Alright,” Greg said with a grin. “You sold it to me.”

Mycroft chuckled, finally opening his eyes again. “If only it were so easy with everyone I knew.”

Greg laughed and kissed the top of Mycroft’s head. “I’m going for a shower,” Greg told him. “Throw that newspaper away by the time I get back?”

“I promise.” They shared a quick kiss and Greg wandered to the bathroom with a grin on his face.

They went shopping in the afternoon, though only to a select few places. Greg was measured for a suit, one he could wear that night and for work. He didn’t buy it at the same place he imagined Mycroft bought his from, but Mycroft never questioned it.

Mycroft picked up several suits from a place elsewhere in the city before they grabbed some lunch in a Chinese restaurant. They ate it at Crusader House while Mycroft talked to Anthea on the phone about their plans for the evening.

The home of the head of MI5 was not understated in the slightest. Greg’s eyes flicked around at the fine ceilings, the luxurious furniture.

He followed Mycroft to one of the rooms people had gathered in, collecting a glass of champagne from one of the waiters on the way.

Mycroft introduced him to everyone he spoke to as ‘my partner, Detective Chief Inspector Greg Lestrade of the Metropolitan Police’.

And they spoke to Greg like they did to Mycroft, with polite questions and discussions about the evening and the charities they were raising money for that night. He could see in Mycroft’s eyes how he was analysing every conversation.

Greg watched him with pride as he collected some nibbles. When Mycroft spoke, everyone listened. Where Mycroft moved, people - some of the most important people in the country - followed him with their eyes. Most of all, Greg watched him with wonder. Mycroft had not hesitated in introducing Greg as his partner, his lover, his other half.

Greg returned to his side while Mycroft was in deep conversation with a politician Greg recognised but couldn’t place.

“Ah, is this the better half, Mycroft?” the politician asked, holding his hand out to Greg.

Greg laughed politely as he shook it. “Greg Lestrade,” he said.

“Andrew Regis,” the man replied. “Home Secretary.”

“Ah,” Greg said. This was the bugger who’d cut all the police budgets. Bastard. Mycroft’s arm wrapped around Greg’s waist.

“Did you get your surveillance system then?” Regis asked, sipping his champagne.

“The Prime Minister seems to appreciate its qualities,” Mycroft said. “But I believe yours is the opinion that matters most.”

Regis smiled coolly. “Don’t put me on a pedestal, Mycroft.”

“Hardly,” Mycroft said. “You owe me.”

“I owe a lot of people,” Regis said.

“You owe me the most.”

Regis and Mycroft eyed each other for a few moments.

“Look, I’m sorry about all that,” Regis finally said. “But it’s budgets. We don’t have it.”

Greg snorted. Regis frowned at him. “Sorry,” Greg muttered, glancing at Mycroft, who appeared more amused than unhappy with him.

“My dead brother,” Mycroft said, his voice low as he stared directly at Regis. “Is suspected of murders he never committed. The least you could allow is the opportunity for me to present a case to the Attorney General to clear his name.”

Regis stared at him. “Look, Mycroft, Mycroft, I’m sorry I-”

“-I won’t accept your apologies,” Mycroft said. “Not when I know the reason why you won’t allow him the opportunity to review the case.”

Greg saw it then. The moment Regis swallowed. When he knew Mycroft knew whatever it was he had done.

“I’ll get you the security system,” Regis said, wiping sweat from his brow. “I’ll do it, you’ll get it. But I can’t convince the Attorney General, I’m all out of favours with him now I…”

Mycroft lifted his hand and Regis shut up. “Thank you, Andrew,” Mycroft murmured. “You may leave us now.”

Regis nodded. “Yes. Of course.” He turned to Greg. He opened his mouth and then closed it again. “Very well,” he said and turned away, walking towards the Prime Minister on the other side of the room.

Greg raised his eyebrows. “What the hell did he do?” he asked Mycroft.

“He knew the Attorney General had your case on his desk to clear Sherlock’s name. But he was close to losing his job as Home Secretary after the Moriarty break-ins at the Tower Of London, Pentonville and the Bank Of England. The Attorney General is a close personal friend of the Prime Minister. If the Attorney General ensured Mr Regis did not lose his job, then Mr Regis would take Sherlock’s case off his desk.”

“Why would the Attorney General not want Sherlock’s case?” Greg asked.

“Because in taking it, he would appear foolish. Why waste all that money on a case involving two dead men?” Mycroft asked.

Greg swallowed. “Oh. Politics is shit.”

“Quite right,” Mycroft said, slipping his hand into Greg’s. “But believe me when I tell you I can play that game better than every single person in this room.” Greg glanced at him and knew Mycroft was not exaggerating. “Let’s go,” Mycroft said.

Greg just nodded. “Sure.” He followed Mycroft outside and to the car already waiting for them. “So everyone knows you’re gay?” Greg asked as the car rolled away from the curb.

“They certainly do now,” Mycroft said with a smile.

Greg laughed. “So, how did you come out?”

“Many people used to think Anthea and I were together,” Mycroft said. “We often attended parties together. And she is a very attractive woman, and had to reject her fair share of advances. Of course, when she got married people began to question my relationship status. Not helped, of course, by my grandfather’s ring on my finger. I never had anything to hide. I’ve never been ashamed.”

Greg smiled at him. “I like that.”

Mycroft smiled back, watching as London passed by the window. Greg just watched him with a smile.

 

* * *

 

 

Mycroft and Greg hardly mentioned Christmas Day. It came without either of them putting up decorations or making a fuss. But they both had the day off and they cooked dinner together. They went for a walk in a deserted park. They got back before dark and went to bed straight away, watching films on the television in the bedroom. They made love and laughed and talked. They fell asleep with unsaid hopes for the year ahead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With credit for the story quotes from HLV here: http://gravesdiggers.livejournal.com/54909.html?thread=384381 And credit for the inspiration for Lestrade's glasses here: http://arianedevere.livejournal.com/70678.html


	61. Set The Story Straight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is probably the longest I've gone without an update. It's far to say I've struggled with this one and people keep stealing my weekends from me. But yay, got through it.  
> cltc75, LaTourangelle, Abbennett, MoonRiver, ivefoundmygoldfish (melonpanparade), nasri, KingTaran, Jalizar, JustLookFrightenedAndScuttle, bananas_are_good_9, DaltonG, Lilly, Atiabis, psychicdreams, Mice, UnicornSoulHunter, Kaci, Maliciouspixie5, Copgirl1964, gngrxx, roosickle, undun, jill, ladyxdarcy, ofnovember, OwlinAutumn and Vilestrumpet - thank you, thank you, thank you for bearing with me!

_January, 2013_

A year. 365 days. 365 days ago today, Greg had broken down in Mycroft’s arms. And they had kissed. And it had turned his life around. He suspected, as he watched Mycroft prepare them breakfast, that it had turned his life around too.

It was Mycroft who had told him their anniversary was coming up. And he’d also presented a long list of anniversary dates, some worth remembering, one not so much.

January 28, 2006: Their first kiss. When they had played cards and got drunk together and ended up changing the nature of their friendship forever.

January 6, 2007: The day of ‘the biggest mistake Mycroft had ever made’. His words. The day he’d walked away.

January 19, 2012: Greg finished his paperwork to clear Sherlock’s name. Mycroft went to him then. They’d kissed, they’d made love, they’d fought it out the next day and then…

January 19, 2013: 365 days later.

They both had work, but they’d got up early to enjoy a few rushed minutes together as they ate some breakfast and then got ready to leave. They hoped work wouldn’t conspire to give either of them reason to stay out late.

Thankfully, the murderers, thieves and politicians were on their best behaviour, and at 8.30pm, they found themselves at a quiet restaurant in Greenwich.

“Anthea recommended it,” Mycroft said as he looked over the menu. “Although, she always had a taste for the bizarre.”

Greg laughed and cast his eye over the curious-sounding combinations. “Yeah. Not sure I would have chosen to put some of these things together, but I’ll give it the benefit of the doubt.” He pulled a face as he saw a waiter provide the table next door with a tiny meal. “I hope there’s more than that on our plates, otherwise we’re going to have to grab a takeaway on the way back.”

Mycroft laughed, his eyes sparkling. “Behave.”

Greg grinned and poured them both more champagne. “Happy anniversary, love,” he said, tapping their glasses together. Mycroft smiled across at him, reaching forward to hold Greg’s hands in the centre of the table.

“Happy anniversary,” he replied.

Greg squeezed his hands and let go, returning to his menu. They ordered their food and Greg smiled. “Can’t believe it’s been a year.”

“I know. It’s gone by very quickly.”

“How did it happen?” Greg asked.

“How did what happen?”

“That you came to the Yard,” Greg explained. “When I sent the email to the Attorney General and then went for a cigarette.”

“Ah,” Mycroft said. “The Attorney General’s emails are also received by one of Anthea’s staff, who in turn told Anthea, who then told me. And she persuaded me to go to you.”

Greg stared at him. “This was all due to Anthea?”

“I would have gone to see you eventually,” Mycroft said. “Though I suppose by then it may have been too late.”

Greg shook his head. “I already thought it was too late.” He frowned, remembering. “I was convinced it was done, Mycroft. I thought it had to be. I wasn’t sure I could forgive you.”

“And you did?”

“Course I did.”

“What couldn’t you forgive, Greg?” Mycroft asked.

Greg frowned at the sudden change in questioning. “I don’t know,” he admitted, narrowing his eyes. “What don’t you think I will forgive? Your big work-related secret? I can live with whatever that is.”

“We’ll see,” Mycroft murmured, sipping from his wine.

“You think I’m going to leave you,” Greg said, staring at him. “What reason did I give you to think that I was ever going to leave you?”

“Leave it now. Let’s enjoy our meal.”

“Mycroft,” Greg murmured, reaching out to touch his hand. “I’m in this for the long haul, alright?”

Mycroft didn’t look up from his menu.

“Mycroft,” Greg urged, reaching forward to touch his chin. “It’s alright to be worried about it, but… you really don’t need to be.”

“Will you leave it?” Mycroft snapped, looking up at him.

Greg flinched for a moment, before running his hand against Mycroft’s forearm. Mycroft frowned and looked down at Greg’s hand before meeting Greg’s eyes.

“What are you doing?” Mycroft asked, as Greg’s fingers continued to stroke against his arm and thumb rubbed against the inside of his wrist.

“Reassuring you,” Greg said.

“Why?” Mycroft asked with a frown.

“Because I’m not leaving you. Not now, not when you spill your big secret, not if you start a nuclear war. Whatever happens, we’re going to get through it.”

“You’re unduly optimistic.”

Greg shrugged. “I’ve just never felt like this before.”

“Nor have I.”

“I know. That’s how I know it’s okay to get worried.”

Mycroft nodded and looked down at his hands. “I have given our arrangement quite a lot of thought in the past few months.”

Greg grinned at him. “Arrangement? Is that what you’re calling this?”

“Our living arrangement,” Mycroft corrected. “I want you to live with me.”

Greg smiled across at him. “You do?”

“It seems the next logical step,” Mycroft said. “You spend far more time at Crusader House than you do at your own flat.”

Greg grinned. “No, that’s not it.”

Mycroft frowned back. “Yes it is.”

“No. Say it.”

“Say what exactly?” Mycroft asked, his brows furrowed, his lips parted in confusion. Greg just sat back in his seat smugly, watching the various expressions dance over Mycroft’s face until finally he seemed to get it. “I like it when you’re around,” Mycroft finally said.

“Alright,” Greg said. “When?”

“When what?”

“When do you want me to move in?”

Mycroft began to smile at him, stroking his fingers against Greg’s knuckles. “As soon as possible.”

“How about I start shifting some stuff over tomorrow?”

“Yes.”

Greg grinned at him before returning to his menu. “Right. So. Should they really put cucumber with this fish?”

 

* * *

 

Two and a half hours later, Greg followed Mycroft into his flat - their flat. Greg wandered into the bathroom and opened the cupboard above the sink where he kept his toothbrush. He frowned and hunted around, but couldn’t find it anywhere.

“Mycroft!” he called out. “Have you seen my tooth-” He glanced down to the glass on the sink where Mycroft kept his own toothbrush. Greg’s was in there beside it. “Oh,” he said. “Never mind!”

“Is everything okay?” Mycroft called to him.

“Yeah, fine. Thanks!” Greg grinned to himself. Mycroft had moved his toothbrush before he’d even asked him to move in. Not only was he very, very serious about it, he was willing to prove it to.

Greg found him in bed reading his book. Greg sat down at his side, putting his reading glasses on as he picked up his own. Their arms brushed together as they read for a while before Mycroft began to kiss down Greg’s neck.

Greg grinned at him. “What?” he asked.

“It’s those glasses,” Mycroft said. “They do something to me.”

Greg laughed and put the book aside, pulling Mycroft close and cementing the start of their life in Crusader House together.

 

* * *

 

“Lestrade, I am about to make your day,” Sally said as she walked into his office, a wide grin on her face.

Greg smiled at her. “Morning, Donovan. What you got for me then?”

“Prints.”

“Prints? On what?”

“The bank robbery.”

Greg stared at her. “That was ages ago. How are we getting prints now?”

“Some of the evidence was only being tested this week,” Sally told him.

“Why?”

Sally shook her head. “Believe me when I tell you that you don’t want to know.”

“Anderson.”

“Yeah,” Sally sighed, sitting down opposite Greg and accepting the iced bun he offered her. “He’s on a go-slow. He’s barely hanging on. He’s had the breakdown, he’s had time off but… It’s not helped. He keeps saying Sherlock’s alive.”

Greg groaned. “We went through this.”

“He’s not hallucinating him any more,” Sally said. “Instead, he’s got maps.”

Greg raised his eyebrows. “Maps?”

“Yep. He’s tracking the internet and newspapers from around the world for any ‘weird happenings’. Keeps saying Sherlock’s responsible for them all. Some case in New Delhi or something.”

“New Delhi?” Greg asked. “Ah, you know what, I don’t want to know. Prints. Tell me.”

“Two sets,” Sally said. “Two members of the Waters family.”

“Waters,” Greg muttered. “Shit. They were associated with that jewellery shop robbery about two years ago. They got off.” He grinned slowly. “Got ‘em this time. You’re right, you’ve made my day. Have another iced bun.”

Sally laughed and took one. “How are things anyway?”

“Good, cheers. Moving in with Mycroft.”

“Where?”

“Pall Mall.”

Sally raised her eyebrows. “You’ve got a promotion and a fancy new home in Pall Mall? You’re not going to be able to get your head through the door soon.”

Greg grinned at her. “Lucky I have you around to bring me back down to earth, hey?”

Sally laughed and stood up. “Cheers, boss. I’ll come round with the Waters paperwork later.”

“Hey, Sal,” Greg said as she reached the door.

“Yeah?”

“Congrats on the promotion.”

She beamed at him. “Thanks for your recommendation, sir.”

“Now off with you,” Greg said. “Get me a bloody conviction.”

 

* * *

 

Greg and Mycroft spent just a day clearing up Greg’s stuff. He didn’t need any of the furniture so he left that behind. Sam Brockhurst drove his clothes, books and belongings to Crusader House in the band’s van. Greg filled a brand new wardrobe with his clothes, stocked a new bookshelf with his books and films and put his work on the second desk in Mycroft’s office.

 

* * *

 

_February, 2013_

Greg stormed out of court on a frosty morning, but through his rage, he hardly felt the cold. “They just walked out of there!” he raged.

“Yeah, I know,” Sally said. “I was sort of sitting next to you.”

“The whole Waters family,” Greg fumed. “They just walked right out of there!”

“Again, I was in the room,” Sally said.

“How do they always manage that?”

“They’re good.”

“They’re greedy, and they’ll do it again, and next time we’re gonna catch ‘em in the act.”

“How?” Sally asked.

“I dunno yet! Isn’t that your job now?”

Sally rolled her eyes as they got in the car. “What now?” she asked.

Greg sighed and thought it over. He thumped the steering wheel. “It hinged on forensics, Sal. I don’t know how long I can protect Anderson for.”

Sally glanced at him. “What are you going to do?”

“I have to take Anderson off this case. And then…” Greg sighed, desperately sorry to have to say it. “It’s up to his boss to decide after that.”

Sally nodded and watched out of the window as Greg drove them away from court. When they got back to the Yard, Greg went directly to the forensics department. There, he found the head of forensics in his office.

The man glanced up at Greg. “You don’t need to say anything, Lestrade. It’s done.”

Greg frowned at him. “What’s done?”

“Philip Anderson is clearing out his desk as we speak. We’re in the conviction business. We can’t continue to tolerate this level of incompetence.”

“Force is still going to support him though, right?” Greg asked. “He’s got depression and goodness knows what else.”

“He can get all the support he requires on the good old NHS,” the man replied.

“It’s a lot of shite,” Greg said. “He deserved better than that.”

“It’s budgets, Lestrade.”

Greg sighed and shook his head. “I want your best person on the Waters case. I’ll take it up higher than me if necessary.”

“You’ve already got it, Lestrade.”

Greg nodded. “And I want a review of everything Anderson did during the Waters case. They’re going to try and rob something else and I want the evidence from this case available to the prosecution when we get there.”

The forensics head scratched his beard and sighed. “I don’t take any pleasure in firing someone. But in this case… I had no choice. I know he was a friend of yours.”

“I know,” Greg said, sighing. “I would have done the same.”

 

* * *

 

_March, 2013_

Greg jogged through Richmond Park, listening to the thump of his feet on the hard ground. It was freezing out, but he felt good for the run.

“Greg!” a woman shouted. Greg thought he’d heard it, but couldn’t for a single second think it was anyone calling for him. “Greg!”

He stopped running and turned around, to see a woman with apricot hair walking a dog. Greg grinned and waited as she walked over, an equally-bright smile on her face. “Oh thank God,” Jane said. “Thought you were never going to hear me and everyone would think I was some mad woman shouting names for no reason.”

Greg laughed. “Sorry. I would hug you, but I’m a bit sweaty.”

Jane smiled and leaned forward to kiss his cheek. “Not a worry. You got time for a coffee?” she asked.

“Yeah, go for it,” he said, leaning down to give Louis a stroke. “I’ve got a day off.”

Jane smiled and they began to walk towards the park’s tea rooms. “How you doing?” she asked. “I read an article about you in the paper. Said a certain thing about being a Detective Chief Inspector?”

Greg laughed. “Yeah, got a promotion. Sort of wish I hadn’t with this ridiculous Waters case going on though.”

Jane nodded. “Yeah, I wasn’t going to mention that bit.” They walked into the dog-friendly tea rooms and took a seat by the window. They each ordered a coffee and some toasted tea cakes. “How’ve you been?” she asked.

“Good,” Greg said. “Really good. You?”

“Likewise. It’s been too long.”

He nodded. “I’m sorry. I did want to call and set up a dinner or something, but you know how it gets.”

“Oh, I know, believe me.”

Greg glanced down at her hand. “You’re engaged?” he asked.

She beamed. “Firefighter,” she said with a giggle. “Apparently I have a thing for men in the emergency services.” They both laughed at that, Greg relaxing into his chair.

“Hey, Jane,” he started. “I never really properly thanked you for what you did. With making me do that inquest and all your support.”

She held her hand up. “No need, lovely. I’m just so glad you did it. And look at you now, DCI. It’s brilliant, Greg, I am so happy for you.”

“I’m happy for you too,” Greg said. “I hope this bloke knows how lucky he’s got it.”

“Oh, he does,” Jane said with a smile. “This one really is for keeps.” Greg smiled and thanked the waitress for their drinks and food. “How’s your dad and Rosa?” Jane asked.

Greg sighed a little. “Dad died. He had cancer.”

“Oh God. Oh, I am so, so sorry.”

Greg shook his head. “It’s alright. He had a good life. I’m alright.”

“Are you… do you… is there someone taking care of you?”

Greg smiled. “There is, yeah.”

“And?” Jane pressed, eyeing him eagerly.

Greg grinned. “And what?”

Jane rolled her eyes. “You know what. Who is the lucky person then? Please tell me it’s who I hope it is.”

“Who do you hope it is?” Greg asked.

“You know who.”

They stared at each other for a few moments before Greg smiled. “Yeah. Yeah, it’s Mycroft.”

Jane beamed at him. “Oh thank all that is holy for that. I was convinced you were both going to be too proud to admit how you were feeling.”

“We were a bit,” Greg said. “But we’ve been together more than a year now, and I couldn’t be happier.”

“And Mycroft? He’s treating you right?” Jane asked.

“He’s brilliant, Jane. I’m really sorry about-”

“-No. No, it’s fine. I want you to be happy more than anything, and I’m glad you both finally sorted it out. I don’t believe in soulmates, but shitting hell, you guys are clearly made for each other.”

“It’s just…” Greg shook his head. “I never imagined it would be like this. Like it could be so easy. We just get on so well.”

“Are you in the same flat still?”

“Nope. Moved into Mycroft’s in January. It’s really good, Jane.”

She smiled at him. “Glad he finally got his arse in gear. I think you must both be good for each other.”

“I hope so,” Greg said. They sat for two hours catching up, before they both went their separate ways, both vowing to keep in touch and Jane promising Greg and Mycroft an invite to her wedding to Mr Firefighter.

 

* * *

 

_April, 2013_

The past two weeks had been exhausting. Greg had more paperwork than he could tolerate, and he and Mycroft had spent long hours working on Sherlock’s case. Aside from those hours in the office or pouring over details in the living room, they hadn’t had much of a chance to catch up.

Today Greg was meeting the Attorney General to talk through some of the details of the case, to see if it was something he was willing to look into. Even then, as Mycroft frequently pointed out, there were no guarantees.

Greg walked through the long marble corridor in Whitehall, glancing at the portraits which lined the long hallway. He sat down on one of the benches taking his phone out to check if he had any messages.

“Greg,” a familiar voice said.

Greg looked up, and straight across at John Watson. It caught him off guard, and it took a few moments for him to compose himself enough to nod his head once and murmur “John” in return. He looked… old. Sad. Greg bit his lip, lowering his phone. He didn’t even know what to say to him.

“This your doing?” John asked.

“Is what my doing?”

“This.” John gestured to the building. “The Attorney General calling me here as a possible witness in court.”

Greg nodded, lowering his eyes. Guilt and betrayal permeated through his core. He had no right to even look at John, let alone try and explain.

“How long will it take?” John asked. “This process?”

Greg shrugged. “They haven’t even agreed to take the case yet. The paperwork’s done but now there’s so much other stuff to sort through. Could still take months.”

“I’m surprised Mycroft didn’t do this months ago.”

“There’s been a lot of political wrangling to get to this stage,” Greg said.

John raised his eyebrows. “You’ve been in contact with Mycroft.”

Greg nodded. “Yeah.”

John snorted and rolled his eyes. “Guess you got everything you wanted then.”

“No. John. No.”

John just shook his head and returned to his newspaper. Greg decided it would be a lot better if John just smacked him one. “I’m sorry,” Greg said. “For all of it.”

John didn’t look up from his paper. “Sherlock made mistakes too,” he said. “I know you tried to help him. It doesn’t mean I don’t hold you partly responsible. You were one of the people he trusted most in the world and you betrayed him.”

“I know,” Greg whispered. “Christ, I know.”

John looked back across at him then. “You know I can’t...” He swallowed and shook his head, taking a minute to look around. “I can’t just… Even though you’re doing this. I won’t forgive you.”

“I know,” Greg murmured. “Don’t expect you to. If it helps, I didn’t realise you’d be here.”

“Helps a bit,” John said. “So, whose idea was this then? You or Mycroft?”

“Me,” Greg said. “I sent a report last November and then the Attorney General refused to consider it, so me and Mycroft have been working all hours trying to put something together. But even though he’s considering it now, it doesn’t mean he’s going to do anything. Mycroft’s coming up with back-up plans.”

“Are you two…”

“Yeah,” Greg whispered. “Yeah, me and Mycroft.”

John nodded. “I met someone,” he said.

“That’s great.”

“It’s early days,” John said. They both looked up as the Attorney General’s secretary walked out to call John in. John stood, leaving his newspaper on the bench. “Right. Well.”

“Yeah,” Greg replied.

John sighed. “You don’t…” He shrugged and walked in. John was in the office for 45 minutes, and when he left, he barely offered Greg a glance.

Greg got up and went into the Attorney General’s office himself. They shook hands.

“You realise this is unprecedented,” the Attorney General said, his brow furrowed as he flicked through the paperwork. “They’re both dead.”

“I know,” Greg said. “We’re working on the basis that everything was read out at Sherlock Holmes’ and Richard Brook’s inquest. They were both public court hearings. So, if things were wrong during those inquests - which they were - then we have a right to have them reviewed in public court.”

“It’s unprecedented,” the Attorney General said again. “You are asking me to ignore the evidence compiled for some of the finest coroners in this country.”

“All due respect, the evidence was wrong,” Greg told him.

“I’m not convinced,” the Attorney General said. “I’ve done my research. I know the two people behind this are yourself, one of Sherlock Holmes’ allies in the police, and his brother, Mycroft Holmes. Mycroft may have some power in this area, but even he cannot dictate what I review.”

“I started this before Mycroft got involved.”

“Nonetheless, you were still an ally of Mr Holmes. And this case will cost thousands in legal fees. We are in a recession. On top of that, this case would draw attention to Mycroft Holmes’ position within the Government. He would, of course, need to testify.”

“That’s up to him,” Greg said.

“You and I are both very aware of Mr Holmes’ position within this Government. He’s the centre of the wheel keeping this country spinning.”

“I know,” Greg said. “But like I said, it’s up to him. No one knows what they’re doing better than Mycroft.”

“Then you’re aware that in a letter sent to me last week, he said he would not testify if the case went to court?”

Greg frowned. “He did what?”

The Attorney General held out a letter. Greg took it. It was headed paper, definitely from Mycroft’s office. And that was definitely his partner’s signature at the bottom.

 

_I want to offer my sincere gratitude for your willingness to consider this case. I understand this is a unique situation, and one which I would urge you to give your full attention._

_On the matter of me testifying, I am afraid I will have to refuse._

_You understand why, of course._

_Sincerely,_

_Mycroft Holmes._

 

“On the basis of that,” the Attorney General said. “I’m afraid I have to turn down the request.”

Greg stared at him. “What?”

“I told Mr Holmes I would consider it. I never made any promises. This will cost too much time and money. And quite frankly, I am sick and tired of Mr Holmes thinking he can do anything he wants. It’s about time he was brought down a peg or two.”

“You’re making a mistake,” Greg told him.

“I assure you, I’m not. Have a nice day, Detective Chief Inspector.”

Greg glared at him and stood up. He stormed out of the office and drove straight home. Mycroft had been working in his office before Greg left for work that day, and he was still there now. He looked up from his desk as Greg barged in.

“Not good news?” Mycroft asked.

“No. And you know why it’s not good news?” Greg snapped at him. “Because you refused to testify. You didn’t even tell me, Mycroft.”

“That man is trying to punish me.” Mycroft returned to his computer. “Think nothing of it.”

“Think nothing-think nothing of it?” Greg spluttered, walking forward and slamming his hand down on one of Mycroft’s books. Mycroft didn’t look up, but continued typing. “Mycroft! Look at me.”

“And say what? I have a lot of work to do and you’re unbearable when you’re in this sort of mood. Have a coffee and we’ll discuss it when you’ve calmed down.”

“We’re discussing this now.”

“No, we’re not,” Mycroft snapped, looking up at him. “I have two countries with missiles poised and ready to be fired at each other. I have a Government minister willing to be sent to jail so he can disclose secrets relating to national security. An Attorney General with an ego the size of Russia is not my concern right now.”

Greg sighed and sunk down in the chair on the other side of the desk. “Do you need anything?”

“Paracetamol,” Mycroft said. “And a very strong coffee.”

Greg nodded. “On it. Anything else?”

Mycroft shook his head. “No. Thank you.”

Greg sighed and got up, wandering to the kitchen to turn the kettle on. He grabbed some tablets from the medicine cabinet in the bathroom and returned to Mycroft’s office with the coffee, the box of painkillers and a couple of biscuits.

Mycroft glanced up at him. “I didn’t ask for the biscuits.”

“I know,” Greg said. “But you started work at 5.30 this morning and I don’t think you’ve eaten in more than 12 hours. Am I wrong?”

Mycroft frowned. “No. You’re right.”

“You probably have a hunger headache. Biscuits are better than nothing until I’ve cooked dinner. Want anything particular?”

“Fish.”

“Alright. I’m still mad at you,” Greg said. “But I’ll wait until you’ve solved your conflicts first.”

Mycroft half-smiled at him.

“What?” Greg asked, crossing his arms as he watched him.

“I’ve just never met anyone who understood me as well as you do,” Mycroft said. “Thank you.”

Greg smiled back a bit at that. “Just eat the bloody biscuits,” he said, leaving the office and quietly shutting the door behind him.

He cooked pasta and smoked salmon and served it to Mycroft in his office. Mycroft had rolled his shirt sleeves up to his elbows and was in the middle of a conference call with Anthea.

Greg left him to it, doing his own paperwork in the living room. When it got to 12.12am with Mycroft only leaving to use the bathroom and make them each a coffee during that time, Greg got up and knocked on the door.

Mycroft’s tired eyes flicked up to meet his. “Are you going to bed?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Greg said. “I’ve got court tomorrow. Come to bed soon alright? You’ve been going for hours.”

Mycroft nodded. “Of course.”

“Did you manage to sort anything out?”

“No. Not yet.”

Greg sighed. “Alright. Well, we’ll discuss Sherlock’s case tomorrow, yeah?”

“Of course.”

Greg walked around the desk and kissed the top of Mycroft’s head. “Have a nap if you can, at the very least.”

Mycroft looked up at him. “I am sorry about how the meeting went today.”

“I know,” Greg said. “I know you are. I’m just angry because I want this to be sorted.”

“We will.”

Greg nodded and leaned down to kiss him. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Greg.”

 

* * *

 

When Greg’s alarm went off in the morning, he was relieved to see Mycroft was in bed beside him. Mycroft hummed as Greg kissed his forehead. “Get as much rest as you can, alright?” Greg said as he kissed his lips.

Mycroft nodded. “I have to be up in an hour.”

Greg sighed. “Quiet weekend, yeah?”

“I hope so.”

Knowing he had to be content with that at the very least, Greg got up and ready for work. The day went by quickly, with a defendant being sent to jail and Greg getting the opportunity to work through some cases with Sally.

Mycroft was still at the office in Whitehall when Greg got home and he made them both a lasagna, which he ate by himself on the sofa.

Mycroft got home at 9.47pm, and he curled up tiredly with Greg. Greg turned the television off and kissed his hair. “Long day?”

“Mmm. Crisis averted. For now.”

“So,” Greg sighed. “So, why won’t you testify?”

“I can’t give away my position in Government. The Attorney General knows this, so he’s testing me. He wants more power for himself, and thinks I’m the one who is able to give it to him.”

“So, what now?” Greg asked. “He’s refused it again.”

Mycroft frowned. “I will think of a way, I promise you.”

Greg sighed, holding Mycroft close. “I hope so. Because I really need to do this, Mycroft. I can’t ever move on from all of this unless we clear his name.”

“I know. I know how important it is.”

 

* * *

 

Two days later, Greg was surprised with a text.

 

MESSAGE Unknown  
4.24pm: Bury the hatchet?  
This is my new no. John  
Watson.

 

MESSAGE  
4.28pm: Thank you. If you  
ever want a catch-up only  
need to ask.

 

MESSGAES John Watson  
5.21pm: Let’s not get ahead of  
ourselves.

 

* * *

 

_May, 2013_

Greg followed Mycroft up the path towards the red cottage. He looked around, trying to imagine a younger version of Mycroft as a teenager here, living with (or putting up with) a seven-year-old Sherlock.

Mycroft knocked on the door and his mother answered, a big smile on her face. “Come in. Greg, hello.” She cupped his face and kissed his cheek. “It’s about time Myc invited you around.” She raised her eyebrows pointedly at her son and ushered them through.

Greg laughed. “It’s nice to see you again. Thanks for having me over.”

Mycroft looked around. “Where have you put the clock?”

“Oh, we got rid of it,” his mother said. “The cuckoo went off every 10 minutes and it was driving us around the bend. Tea, Greg?”

“Coffee, if that’s alright.”

“Of course it is,” Mrs Holmes said with a smile. “Myc, help me with the drinks.”

“Mycroft,” he muttered as he followed his mother into the kitchen.

Greg smiled and hovered in the hallway for a moment before walking into what he expected to be the living room. Mycroft’s father rose from the sofa and beamed at him. “Hello, Greg,” he said, holding his hand out.

Greg smiled and shook it. “Nice to see you.”

“When was the last time?”

“January, 2007,” Greg said.

“Good gracious, was it really?”

Greg smiled. “Yeah, it was.”

“And how long have you been together?”

“A bit over a year,” Greg said, feeling a bad this was the first time they had come over.

Mycroft’s dad smiled however and took a seat. “I understand you’re living with Mycroft now?”

Greg nodded and sat down on the sofa. “Yeah, I moved in in January.”

“I’ve never seen Mycroft live with anyone before. What’s he like?”

Greg laughed. “Tidy. Very, very tidy.”

Mycroft looked suspiciously at them both as he walked in with a tray of drinks, his mother carrying some biscuits and cakes behind him. “There’s marble cake and Victoria sponge,” Mrs Holmes said as she put the tray down on the table. “How was the journey here?”

“It was good,” Greg said, smiling as Mycroft took a seat beside him. “Not too much traffic once we got out of London.”

Mrs Holmes passed him a coffee. “Help yourselves to cake. Mycroft tells us you were promoted recently.”

Greg nodded. “Yeah, Detective Chief Inspector.”

“Congratulations,” she said. “Mycroft, cut Greg some cake while you’re at it.”

“Marble,” Greg said, watching him with a smile.

Mycroft handed him a plate and sat back in the sofa. “How is your back?” Mycroft asked his father.

“Better.”

“He did it gardening,” Mrs Holmes told Greg. “I told him not to push himself too hard, but did he listen? Stubbornness runs in the family, I’m afraid.”

Greg laughed. “Mycroft? Stubborn? Never.”

Mycroft raised his eyebrows with a look which said ‘don’t you gang up on me too.’

Greg laughed and unthinkingly wrapped his arm around Mycroft’s shoulders. “Oh come in. What was it you were trying to convince me last night? Oh, that thing about cooking eggs.”

“I wasn’t wrong,” Mycroft said, looking at him.

Greg snorted. “Yeah, but you weren’t right either.”

Mycroft frowned at him. “Must we have this debate again?”

Greg laughed. “No, I really don’t think that’s a good idea.” Greg grinned at Mycroft’s stubborn expression, his smile widening. A small smile was nudging at the corner of Mycroft’s mouth. “Go on,” Greg said, grinning at him. “You know it’s funny.”

“I think no such thing,” Mycroft said. Greg laughed and turned his head to where Mycroft’s dad was sitting. He’d almost forgotten there was anyone else in the room. Clearly their conversation had made an impression, because Mrs Holmes was watching them with an amused expression.

“So, why did you move to here?” Greg asked.

“From the ancestral home?” Mr Holmes asked. “When was that Mycroft?”

“I was 14.”

“Ah yes. Yes. It was my father’s home and grandfather’s before that. My father died when Mycroft was 13 and we thought it would be the appropriate time to move somewhere a bit more sociable for them both.”

Greg nodded. “Sociable?”

“There’s a village about a 20 minute walk away,” Mycroft said with an amused glint in his eyes.

Greg smiled. He sat back and ate his cake and drank his coffee and absently stroked Mycroft’s shoulder while he caught up with his parents. The conversation was so mundane. But like a dutiful son, Mycroft listened and contributed, leaning into Greg’s body.

No one mentioned Sherlock. He remained like an unspoken secret, too painful for anyone to put into words. When Greg got up to use the bathroom, he saw a photograph of both Mycroft and Sherlock. Sherlock looked around four years old, which would have made Mycroft around 11. Chubby and glaring at the photographer, it was Sherlock who looked happy.

Later that night as they got into bed beside each other, Greg felt a dull ache in his chest. “We have to do it,” he whispered. “We have to clear Sherlock’s name.”

“I know,” Mycroft said.

“C’mon, love,” Greg said. “We’ve been trying for too long. We’ve got to do this once and for all. Please.”

Mycroft turned to him and touched his cheek. “Alright. Once and for all. I’ll sort it.”

 

* * *

 

_June, 2013_

Greg stood outside the Attorney General’s office while Mycroft flicked through some paperwork. “C’mon,” Greg said, crossing his arms. “We’ve got to get this over and done with.”

“Just a moment. I need to confirm something.”

Greg rolled his eyes and huffed. Mycroft pulled a piece of paper out and cast his eyes over it. He nodded to himself and put it back inside the folder. “Now we can go,” he said, standing up.

“How are we doing this?” Greg asked.

“By being completely honest,” Mycroft said with a smile. “And with a bit of good old-fashioned bribery.”

Greg rolled his eyes again and knocked on the door. They both entered when the Attorney General said ‘come in’. The man frowned at them both. “You’re not my 6 o’clock meeting,” he said.

“Correct,” Mycroft said, taking a seat uninvited and then indicating for Greg to do the same. “You and I need to have a chat.”

“No, we don’t, Mycroft.”

“Sherlock Holmes,” Mycroft said. “I want the case reviewed, and I want the process to start in August at the very latest.”

“No,” the Attorney General said. “It’s a waste of money and resources.”

“I understand you were planning a move to America,” Mycroft said. “A job in the White House and where your wife could take a position at the Washington Post. That would be quite a step up for you.”

The Attorney General laughed and shook his head. “So?”

“I have contacts in America,” Mycroft said. “I can cement your position for you.”

“You are not bribing me, Mr Holmes.”

Mycroft sighed. “Very well. If you will not be bribed, how do you respond to threats?”

“Not very well.”

“Will that still be the case when I remind you of your off-shore bank accounts in Switzerland?”

The Attorney General stared at Mycroft. “What off-shore bank accounts?”

“£1.3million was it? £8.2million in total, if I’m not mistaken. A lot it is your own personal wealth of course. But more than half of it is in undeclared financial contributions to a certain political party.”

“Mycroft, you can’t threaten me.”

“Yes I can,” Mycroft said. “And I am. I have a reporter at The Times on speed-dial. An old university friend of mine, and one who is not particularly fond of you.”

“It’s not illegal,” the Attorney General spluttered.

Mycroft smiled. “Yes it is.”

“This is blackmail!”

“Yes, it is,” Mycroft said, smiling coolly. “August.”

“I won’t do it.”

Mycroft retrieved his phone from his pocket. “No?” He pressed a button and held it to his ear. “Oliver. Long time, no speak-”

“-Hang on! Hang on!”

“Just a moment, Oliver, my apologies,” Mycroft said, hanging up and lowering the phone. “August.”

“It might take longer…”

“August,” Mycroft said again. “It’s my final offer.”

The Attorney General hung his head. “Fine. Fine. But you’ve made an enemy of me, Mycroft Holmes.”

Mycroft rose from his seat. “On the contrary. You’ve made an enemy of me. And you are just an ant at the very bottom of my shoe. Detective Chief Inspector Lestrade. We’ll be leaving.”

Greg smiled as he stood up. He followed Mycroft out of the room. Mycroft turned to him and pocketed his phone.

“God,” Greg breathed out. “That was…” Mycroft raised his eyebrows. “That was the most arousing thing I’ve ever witnessed,” Greg said.

Mycroft chuckled.

“I’m serious,” Greg murmured, stepping towards him. He took hold of Mycroft’s hand and lifted it to his neck so Mycroft could feel his pulse. Mycroft’s eyes darkened and he licked his lips.

“We need to go home,” Mycroft murmured.

“Yeah. Yeah, we do,” Greg agreed. “Right now.”

“Of course.”

Greg followed Mycroft out to the car. They both sat down and Greg grabbed his tie, tugging him towards him for a hard kiss. Mycroft responded without hesitation, his fingers curling in Greg’s hair. Greg groaned.

“Seatbelts,” Mycroft gasped.

“Your drivers are the safest in the world.”

“I thought you were a defender of the law, Greg Lestrade,” Mycroft murmured against his neck. “You shouldn’t go around breaking it.”

“Yeah, well,” Greg said with a grin, tilting his head back as Mycroft licked and nipped his neck. “You shouldn’t go around blackmailing people.”

“You’re right,” Mycroft said, pulling Greg into a kiss. “I broke the law.”

“Yeah you did,” Greg breathed out. “And it was the sexiest fucking thing I’ve ever seen.”

Mycroft chuckled and Greg unfastened his tie. They breathed hard, staring at each other, before reigniting a desperate kiss. Greg straddled Mycroft’s lap, grinding their hips together.

Mycroft tilted his head back, his mouth open as he gasped and writhed and pulled Greg tighter against him.

“Mr Holmes, we’re here,” the driver said over the intercom.

Greg burst out laughing and rolled onto the seat to adjust his clothes. “Please tell me that sound system only works one way.”

“I believe so,” Mycroft said. “Nonetheless, my staff are very discreet.”

Greg laughed. “Fuck. Come on. I need you.”

Mycroft smiled and rose from the car with an ingrained elegance, as though they hadn’t just been rutting against each other on the back seat. As though Greg hadn’t just left a dark mark under his collar.

Mycroft followed Greg up the stairs. They walked through hastily, shutting the door and then kissing again, Greg holding onto Mycroft’s jacket and pushing him towards the wall. He pushed Mycroft into it, aligning their hips so they could rock together and gasp and groan into each other’s mouths.

Mycroft wrapped one leg around Greg’s as they kissed hard. “Get the lubricant,” Mycroft murmured against Greg’s lips.

“What?”

“I want you to take me here.”

“Oh God,” Greg gasped, kissing him again. “Stay. Wait.” He gave Mycroft one quick look, taking in his flushed cheeks and his dishevelled clothes. Greg made his way into the bedroom, removing his shoes and jeans on the way. He grabbed the lube from the drawer, and met Mycroft again, kissing him hard and rubbing Mycroft’s hard cock through his trousers.

Mycroft’s knees buckled a bit and Greg held his arms up over his head, pinning him to the wall with his body.

“Turn around,” Greg said, groaning when Mycroft did as instructed. Greg made quick work of his trousers, pulling them down to his ankles. He bit Mycroft’s ear lobe, sucking it between his lips. “You are so hot, Mycroft,” he groaned, biting his neck. “All that stuff about threats. God.”

Greg pulled Mycroft’s boxers down and stroked his arse. “You broke the law, Mycroft. You broke the law in front of a police officer, and I can’t let that go.”

Mycroft moaned, dropping his head back against Greg’s shoulders. “What are you going to do about it?” he gasped. “Sir?” he added as an afterthought.

Greg stared at him for a moment before quickly spreading the lubricant over his fingers. “Push your arse out for me, Holmes, that’s the way.”

Greg knelt down behind him, spreading Mycroft’s pert cheeks with his hands as he flicked his tongue against the tight muscle. He was impossibly hard, listening to Mycroft’s hot little gasps and groans, so wanton and desperate.

With flicks and strokes, Greg worked his lover over in all the ways he knew he liked. He replaced his tongue with two fingers, and Mycroft accepted them eagerly, pushing back to take more. Greg kissed the backs of his thighs. “You’re perfect,” he whispered. “I am the luckiest guy in the world.”

He removed his fingers and stood up, pushing his boxers down. “Please,” Mycroft begged. “I need you.”

Greg let out a desperate moan as he thrust home, wrapping one arm around Mycroft’s body and resting the other on his hip. They panted and groaned as they moved together, both still dressed from the waist up, Mycroft’s trousers and boxers pooled around his ankles.

“Oh love, love, love,” Greg was murmuring, lost on every wave of pleasure.

Mycroft cried out and Greg wrapped his hand around his cock, making him come a few moments later. Greg lost it too, biting down on Mycroft’s still-clothed shoulder.

They stood together for a few minutes as they got their breaths back, before Greg pulled out and collapsed onto a chair. Mycroft bent over to pull up his underwear and trousers and they both stared at each other.

Greg grinned slowly at him. “If you ever want to blackmail someone in front of me again, be prepared for the consequences.”

Mycroft chuckled. “You are impossible,” he said as he headed for the bathroom.

Greg laughed and rubbed his face. “Yeah, well. I happen to live with the most powerful man in England. What can I do, ‘ey?”

Mycroft pretended to look put out. “In England, Greg? Give me some credit. Britain at least.”

Greg burst out laughing and threw a cushion at him.

Mycroft smiled widely in response, happy and alive as he ducked the soft missile and closed the bathroom door. Greg laughed to himself. He couldn’t be happier. 


	62. Wishing Things Won't Make Them So

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you my very lovely, cltc75, Mice, roosickle, ivefoundmygoldfish (melonpanparade), moon_raker, LaTourangelle, Jalizar, JustLookFrightenedAndScuttle, KingTaran, Jaeh, cosmicsoup221b, WhiskeySally, artemisdecibal, Abbennett, Superwholockgal, MoonRiver, ladyxdarcy, CommunionNimrod, Cumberbitch..., OwlinAutumn, psychicdreams, Maliciouspixie, Kaci, UnicornSoulHunter, undun, AzarathMetrionZinthos, nasri, Vonegirl, allmyworldsastage. You always make this so much easier. And I have to get up at 5.30am tomorrow. Sobs.

_July, 2013_

Sometimes life is full of big moments. The first kiss, the first I Love You, moving in together. More often than not, it’s about routine. It’s about getting through a working week, looking for two days off with lie-ins and meals out.

For Greg, routine was the best part of his life. He didn’t care about the big moments on a weekend, be they going out with colleagues from the Yard or finding a new restaurant with Mycroft.

He loved coming home and cooking them dinner. Or getting home and finding Mycroft cooking dinner. Or both arriving home at gone 10pm, exchanging a quick, silent look and both immediately heading for the kitchen drawer where the takeaway menus were kept.

It was all about lying on the sofa watching the news together and Greg trying to guess which stories Mycroft had some involvement in. He lived for the days where they both finished work on time, and went to bed early and both read their books before taking advantage of each other’s naked bodies.

Greg loved the occasional lunch where they would meet and more often than not, bemoan an incompetent civil servant or police officer. He craved the little kisses Mycroft gave him when they were at home working.

Some days, those precious days, they would cook dinner together and take their time eating it and talking. Greg grew to learn the rhythm of life in Crusader House.

He knew the changing of the door staff. He knew the three butlers by name. He had met a cleaner, one of four, but only once. He learnt that Mycroft didn’t stock his own fridge, but that it was done by a member of Crusader House staff who took care of a number of tenants in the building. He discovered Mycroft had his suits dry-cleaned.

Greg was tidier than he used to be, and Mycroft tolerated mess more than he did before. Mostly, it was easy. Even when Greg got home and Mycroft wasn’t there, just knowing he would be soon was enough to keep him happy. On hard days, and there were more than they liked to admit, they supported each other through them. More often than not, they didn’t need words. Being in each other’s space was always enough.

 

* * *

 

Sally was sat behind her desk - Greg’s old desk - when he walked in with a thick green folder. She glanced at him and then down at the paperwork in his hands. She narrowed her eyes and raised an eyebrow. “If you think you’re offloading paperwork on me, you’ve got another thing coming,” she said.

Greg smiled. “Is that what you say to all your superiors?”

“No, you’re special.” She flashed him a wide smile.

Greg laughed and took a seat. He set the folder down in front of her so she could read the label on the front.

“Richard Brook and Sherlock Holmes,” she read. “High Court. August 16th.” Her eyes flicked up to Greg’s. “You’ve got a court date.”

“Yep,” Greg told her. “Attorney General gave us the go-ahead and then the court will decide whether they hold new inquests into their deaths. And in the process, hopefully clear Sherlock’s name.”

“Why are you bringing this here?” Sally asked.

“I want you to pull the evidence together.”

“Me?”

“Yeah.”

Sally stared at him. “You know I think Sherlock’s as guilty as sin, right?”

“Yep,” Greg nodded. “Which is exactly why you have to do it. Look. I’ve got statements from all the witnesses in Moriarty’s trial into the Tower Of London thing. I got enough to convince the Attorney General to look at it. But not enough to convince High Court judges to open new inquests. I need more.”

“What do you need?” Sally asked.

Greg sighed. “We need more background on Richard Brook. Who he was, where he came from. Fingerprints on the gun from the top of Bart’s. Phone messages between Brook and Sherlock. Look, me and Mycroft have done a lot of the groundwork on this but we’ve got to take a step back from the case now.”

“Because you brought it to court.”

“Exactly,” Greg confirmed. “It was easy for a coroner to work out what happened. Sherlock created Moriarty, Brook revealed his secret in the press, so Sherlock killed him. Richard Brook died, Sherlock killed himself. That’s what was said in court. But we want to prove Sherlock did not make up Moriarty, and did not kill Moriarty.”

“Do you believe Sherlock didn’t kill him?” Sally asked.

“I believe Sherlock was telling the truth about Moriarty.”

“Do you think he was capable of killing him?”

Greg sighed. “I need evidence, Sal. Will you do this?”

“If I take it, then you can’t interfere. You have to leave me and the team to sort through this ourselves.”

“I accept that.”

“And I’m going to treat it with a blank slate. Like it’s the day Sherlock jumped, and what was left on Bart’s roof is the crime scene.”

“All I ask,” Greg said.

Sally nodded. “Then take this folder back. I’m starting afresh.”

Greg nodded and picked up the folder.

“Are you testifying?” Sally asked.

“Yeah,” Greg said. “Got to explain why I started looking into this. And will probably stand up as a character witness.”

“No, don’t do that,” Sally said.

Greg frowned. “Why?”

“Because you couldn’t even look me in the eye and tell me Sherlock would never kill someone. No way in hell you’re convincing a High Court judge when you can’t even convince yourself.”

Greg half smiled. “Good point.”

“Lestrade. I won’t stand up in court and try to make out Sherlock was some kind of hero. Even if we prove Moriarty faked Richard Brook and killed himself, I will never think Sherlock was innocent.”

“I know.”

“He played a game, Greg. That’s what he called it. I guess what it comes down to, is whether Richard Brook was playing or was simply a playing piece.”

Greg nodded and stood up. “Goes to court next month.”

“I’ll give this my full attention. We all will.”

“Owe you,” Greg said.

“No. No, it’s the least I can do.”

Greg smiled at her and left. He wasn’t sure where he’d be without Sally Donovan some days. Not when they were still trying to catch the Waters family as well.

Who Stole Our Two Mill? the papers were asking. The entire police force knew who stole the £2million. Greg was convinced the entirety of the press knew it too. But nonetheless, the bloody papers were full of bullshit.

 

_The theft of over two million sterling in bonds from the secure vault of a Central London bank is looking eerily familiar to the bank heist last year that nearly cost the Chief of Scotland Yard his job._

_Everything about the modus operandi suggests the work of the same gang, and that must surely have police chiefs sweating over their desks right now as both heists have failed to throw up any suspects, let alone arrests._

_Forensic experts continue to be perplexed by the lack of physical evidence left by the thieves, a problem first mooted during the botched investigation into the infamous Central Bank heist a year ago._

_Scotland Yard will privately be hoping for a better outcome from their investigations here but sources from within the organisation suggest that the outlook is bleak._

_Nobody in the police press office were available for comment._

 

* * *

 

  _August, 2013_

Greg sat down in the public gallery at Her Majesty’s High Court Of Justice. He would be there in an official capacity later in the hearing, but for now, he was there to listen to the opening statements.

Mycroft couldn’t make it, but Greg supposed he thought it better to keep away and let Greg fill him in on how it went later.

Greg narrowed his eyes as he looked around. Anthea was sat across from him in the public gallery, scribbling into a notebook. The press bench was packed. The court rose in deathly silence for the entry of the judge, who cleared his voice before speaking.

“Today I am opening a hearing in respect of Sherlock Holmes and Richard Brook. Both cases have been challenged under section 13 of the Coroners Act 1988 and the Coroners And Justice Act of 2009. An application was made and approved by the Attorney General. He found that on the grounds of fraud, rejection of evidence, irregularity of proceedings, insufficiency of inquiry or the discovery of new facts, it is necessary or desirable in the interests of justice to hold another investigation into the deaths of Mr Holmes and Mr Brook.

“It is not for this court to decide on cause of death. It is, however, for this court to decide whether there is credible evidence to quash the original decisions made in the original inquests.

“The facts, as laid out by the coroner in respect of Mr Brook is as follows. On June 11, 2011, Richard Brook conducted an interview with Kitty Riley. The report was published on June 12 in a national newspaper. In the report, Mr Brook claimed he had been hired by Sherlock Holmes to pretend to be James Moriarty. A few months earlier, Mr Brook, posing as Mr Moriarty, was acquitted on charges relating to breaking into The Tower Of London, Pentonville Prison, and the Bank Of England. On the afternoon of June 12, 2011, for reasons not determined at his inquest, Mr Brook found himself on top of St Bartholomew’s Hospital in West Smithfield with Mr Holmes.

“Evidence collated on that day from witnesses had Mr Holmes pulling a gun on Mr Brook, killing him instantly and rearranging it as a suicide. Mr Holmes then committed suicide himself.

“Over the next weeks and months, this court will need to decide whether the rulings into Mr Brook and Mr Holmes’ deaths were correct. We will be re-examining testimony from witnesses. There will be fresh CCTV evidence and fresh evidence pulled from mobile phones. We will hear from friends and enemies of both Brook and Holmes. And we will hear fresh forensic evidence. All of which was not available to coroners in the inquests in 2011.

“There is no jury in this case and no arguments. It is not for one side or another to prove their case beyond all reasonable doubt as in a criminal court. It is simply for me to listen to the fresh evidence and question the old. This case is not for me to pass judgement on these two men. Their deaths are long since past. My role is to ensure due procedure was followed in their inquests. With that, I call my first witness. The coroner at Westminster’s Coroners’ Court.”

 

* * *

 

Greg stepped out at lunch to have a cigarette. He smiled when Anthea stepped beside him. “Hello,” he said.

She sipped from her coffee. “Hi.”

“What do you reckon?” he asked.

“Hard to tell. Early days.”

“Yeah.”

“He’s a good judge,” Anthea told him. “He listens. I might have had a hand in choosing him.”

Greg laughed and had a drag of his cigarette. “Figures.”

“Do you have any idea what Sergeant Donovan’s testimony will be?” Anthea asked.

Greg shook his head. “Nope. I believe she’s not giving hers until the end of September.”

“Yes, the judge gave them more time. This case was rather rushed through.”

“That was Mycroft’s doing.”

“I know.”

“Feels a bit wrong,” Greg frowned. “The Attorney General was doing all that illegal money stuff and we’re just letting him get away with it so we could have this case.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Anthea said with a coy smile.

Greg laughed and stamped his cigarette out. “How you doing anyway?”

“I’m well,” she said. “I just returned from a trip in Amsterdam. A gallery has commissioned Arnou to do a sculpture of his choosing.” She looked down at her phone. “I have to go. If anything dramatic happens, can you send me an email?”

“Course I will.”

She smiled at him. “Enjoy the rest of your day.”

Greg nodded. “And you.” He watched her walk down the steps, a black car pulling up to the curb just as she arrived. She opened the back door and slid in, hardly looking up from her phone.

Greg took a deep breath before turning around and heading back to the courtroom.

 

* * *

 

When he got Crusader House that evening, he went straight for the bedroom, pulling off his suit and dropping it into the dirty linen basket. He flopped down onto the bed, burying his head in the pillows.

He woke a while later with Mycroft straddling his hips and rubbing his shoulders. Greg groaned as Mycroft rubbed his fingertips into the tight muscles, easing away some of the stress.

“How did it go?” Mycroft asked.

Greg shrugged a bit, letting out a soft sigh as Mycroft’s fingers worked into his muscles. “Just like you told me it would. There’s a lot of evidence to go through, it’s probably going to take months.”

“We knew that would be the case.”

“I know,” Greg said. “It’s just really hard to hear. Sitting there and listening to someone you cared about be pulled apart… and the press are really sceptical, they think the whole thing’s a joke.”

“That will change,” Mycroft said.

“Yeah. It’s just. It’s like sitting through my job hearing all over again. I mean, that was about six weeks of absolute hell and it’s just digging it all up again. I’ve been in court hundreds of times. But it feels like Sherlock’s on trial. It feels a bit like this is my career on trial again. I saw Anthea by the way.”

“Yes, she said,” Mycroft told him. “She told me he appears to be a good judge.”

“Yeah, he’s alright. Likes the sound of his own voice a bit. Every question he asks takes about five minutes.”

Mycroft chuckled. “How many days is it expected to last this week?”

“Just today and tomorrow. Then it’s on hold for three weeks while he deals with some other cases and then it’s back on until it’s over. It gives Donovan more time to do her thing.”

“And what, exactly, will her thing be?” Mycroft asked.

“I dunno.”

“It makes me very uncomfortable, Greg.”

“I trust her, Mycroft.”

Mycroft moved from Greg’s hips, taking a seat beside him on the bed. Greg turned his head to look at him.

“You doubt Sherlock,” Mycroft murmured. “Sometimes.”

Greg looked away and sat up. “Hardly at all.” He sighed and propped some pillows against the headboard before leaning against them. “There was always that doubt in my head that he was capable of shooting someone dead. This isn’t anything new.”

“I realise that.”

“I mean, you are capable too, right? You’ve killed people. You’ve had people killed. Hell, you’ve had a bloke killed right in front of me before. I used to think deep down you cared about it. But I’ve heard you mention it a few times now, and you don’t, do you? That stuff with the Attorney General. You don’t care that you blackmailed him.”

“He is a manipulator and is committing fraud. I have no sympathy for him and feel no remorse in being responsible for his downfall.”

Greg went to open his mouth and then frowned, not sure what to say.

“It bothers you,” Mycroft said. “It bothers you that I don’t feel guilty.”

“Bastard murderer or not, I don’t think it’s right to kill someone.”

“I have had people transported abroad to countries which condone torture for the security of the United Kingdom. Yes, I have killed a man to save my life and I have killed a man because he deserved it. I had a man killed in front of you because he threatened your life and mine. I have lied to the Prime Minister. I am an unelected official who has made decisions without his say-so. I have lied to you. I have lied to Anthea. I have made people I care about carry unspeakable burdens and secrets. And yet none of this is news to you. You knew this, even if you would not admit it.”

Greg swallowed, staring at the wall in front of them.

“You are a better man than I am and you always have been,” Mycroft continued. “You are generous and believe in good things. You see the very best in people. You saw the very best in Sherlock, even when to many eyes, there was none to see. You make me a better person for knowing you.”

Greg sighed and glanced at him. “Greater good.”

“Quite. Everyone has a moral code they must operate within.”

“But do you never feel guilty?” Greg asked. “About any of that stuff you listed?”

“There are…” Mycroft frowned. “There are aspects that haunt me every waking moment.”

Greg reached for him and took hold of his hand. “It scares me sometimes. That you have so much power over people. That you can walk into a party and spend it speaking to the Prime Minister and make him think every decision was his. If I voted for him… it doesn’t mean anything.”

“It means more than a vote in North Korea does.”

Greg snorted and began to laugh despite himself. “You have a warped view on the world,” he said.

Mycroft began to smile. “So do you.”

Greg laughed and leaned towards him, kissing his shoulder. “Remind me why I put up with you.”

“Because I have extraordinary taste in whiskey.”

“Ah yeah,” Greg said. “Yeah, that does help.”

“Not to mention, how comfortable this mattress is.”

“You’re right. Back massages don’t hurt either.” Greg grinned at him before kissing him on the lips. “I love you, you mad, ridiculous bastard.”

Mycroft smiled as he returned the kiss. “I return those sentiments.”

Greg laughed and curled up to him. “Yeah, I know you do. Believe me, I know.”

 

* * *

 

The first week after listening to the evidence in court, Greg battled nightmares. He woke up coated in sweat, images of Sherlock dead and covered in blood fresh in his mind. Mycroft eased him through it with reassuring words and comforting embraces.

 

* * *

 

_September, 2013_

Waiting for the case to resume, Anthea advised Mycroft to take a few weeks away, so he and Greg did just that. They went to Italy, where Mycroft showed off his flawless Italian.

After a few days visiting the major sites in Rome, they stayed for a week on the Amalfi Coast, eating fine food, walking by the water’s edge and spending a day on-board a boat with champagne and a picnic.

Greg was sorry to leave, but happy to return to London in time for the resumption of the hearing.

Greg bumped into John Watson outside of court. John said he had been in to listen to the case, but Anthea later told Greg he had been outside the court but never actually walked through the doors.

Nonetheless, they went for a coffee. They didn’t speak much. John asked a bit about the case and Greg gave him the low-down on what had happened so far. They went separate ways after only 40 minutes, but it was reassuring that John said they should try giving a meet-up another go some time, if only to talk about Sherlock.

It was another week until Sally was due to give evidence. True to his word, Greg hadn’t asked her about it. But he sat in court on a Wednesday afternoon beside Anthea, butterflies in his stomach.

“What do you think?” Anthea asked as the court clerk made his way to his seat. “What is she going to say?”

Greg shrugged. “Could say anything, to be honest with you.”

“Mycroft’s being twitchy,” Anthea said. “Don’t tell him I told you that.”

Greg smiled at her. “I know he is, believe me. He kept asking me about Sally’s track record in court yesterday night.”

Anthea rolled her eyes but remained silent.

“All rise,” the clerk called out as the judge returned to his seat. They stood, Greg taking the opportunity for a look around, before sitting back down. A small group of people with t-shirts with Sherlock’s name on had joined the public gallery. “The next witness is Detective Inspector Sally Donovan of the Metropolitan Police.”

Greg leaned forward in his seat as Sally wandered to the witness stand and gave her oath. There was half an hour of routine questioning about her job, her background and how she had become involved in the case.

“What evidence have you been compiling?” the judge asked her.

“There’s a lot to go through,” she said. “When I opened the case, I decided to work from a blank slate and treat it as though it had happened the day before. We worked on the basis that we knew nothing about the gentlemen at all.”

“And what did you do in the course of your investigation?”

“I had one team working on forensics. Evidence was still stored in boxes, so I asked experts to study the gun Mr Holmes was believed to have shot Mr Brook with. We examined clothes taken from both men. We studied CCTV footage and also were granted permission to take details of phone calls and texts exchanged between the two men.”

Greg swallowed, watching her. He hated how he had no idea where this would go. That even now, that little piece of him doubted Sherlock. And a little piece even doubted Sally.

“And dealing first with the forensics, Detective Inspector, what did your experts find?” the judged asked.

“They will go into more detail in the coming days,” Sally said. “However, it was only a day into the investigation that they told me Mr Holmes’ fingerprints were not on the gun which killed Mr Brook.”

Greg felt a small smile begin to form on his face. He glanced at Anthea, who usually kept her expression so neutral. But he saw relief there.

“And what did that mean?” the judge asked.

“It meant Mr Holmes did not touch the gun with his bare hands.”

“Could he have worn gloves?”

“There were none on the scene or in his clothing,” Sally said. “His prints were found on the banister leading up to the rooftop which meant he had no gloves on when he arrived on the scene.”

“Could he have wiped the weapon clean?” the judge asked.

“Perhaps. Our experts will be able to provide evidence on how easy it is to clear away fingerprints. But from what we can establish, the weapon belonged to Mr Brook, not Mr Holmes.”

“How can you be sure?” the judge asked.

“There were traces of gunshot residue on Mr Brook’s clothing. Inside his coat pocket, in fact. Enough to indicate the gun was carried inside it. No such residue was found on Mr Holmes’ clothes. Again, our gun expert can tell you more on the specifics. But it certainly became clear that Mr Brook carried the gun to the scene. If Mr Holmes took hold of it during the exchange, there are no signs on their bodies to indicate a tussle. We have more experts for you on that score too.”

“What did this all imply to you?”

“That Sherlock Holmes did not shoot Richard Brook and that Richard Brook did indeed shoot himself in the mouth. If you don’t mind, I’d like to run through a brief summary of the arrangement of the body…”

And on it continued. And continued over several days. After Sally, came the experts. Reliable. Detailed. Knowledgeable. Making an effort no one had made before now.

It seemed incomprehensible to Greg that Mycroft had let this go on for so long. Illogical that all this evidence had been left in storage for years. And all this time… all this time…

But whatever he thought about that, he let it go.

The longer the trial went on, the more exhausted Mycroft began to appear. He was as affectionate with Greg as he had ever been, and they communicated as openly as they always had.

But Greg saw his eyes grow weary. He saw him standing at the window in his office, staring out across London as though he hardly saw a thing.

He noticed the hushed exchanges on the phone. And when he saw Anthea, she wore a grave expression too.

He knew Mycroft was working on a particularly troublesome problem in Eastern Europe. But as Greg had always promised, he never pushed. He resolved to be Mycroft’s steadying hand and someone to go home to after a particularly trying day.

 

* * *

 

_October, 2013_

Greg was moving some items in his drawers around at work when he came across the box of Sherlock’s belongings. He had no idea why he’d kept it. Sherlock wasn’t particularly attached to any of it anyway.

The mask, the model train, the DVD. He smiled a bit at the memory of that video. He slipped it into his computer.

He laughed to himself as Sherlock asked why they were filming it and why John was having a birthday gathering and was he supposed to wink at the end?

Greg missed him. He really did. He put the DVD back in the box and decided to give it to John.

 

* * *

 

Anderson still wasn’t doing well. Understatement, Greg thought, studying his beard. Anderson was trying to explain how Sherlock wasn’t dead. How he was some sort of a parachuting expert. And he had theories about what living Sherlock was up to.

Apparently there was a blonde drug smuggler dressed as a Buddhist monk. Oh yes, and Sherlock helped out a detective in New Delhi. And apparently then Sherlock skipped off to Hamburg and secured the conviction of Trepoff. And… Trepoff.

There was something familiar about that name and Greg couldn’t quite place it…

“It had to be him!” Anderson said. “There’s no one else it can be! Do you not see?”

Greg looked at him. “I see that you lost a good job fantasising about a dead man coming back to life, and I know why you want that to happen. But it’s never gonna.”

Anderson shook his head.

“Okay,” Greg murmured before finishing his pint. “I’m gonna go and see an old friend.” He picked his coat up and looked at Anderson. “You take care, okay? I’ll put a word in, see if they won’t review your case.”

“Just look at the map, though.”

Greg looked down at it. New Delhi. Hamburg. Through Amsterdam if Greg followed a particular curve with his eyes...

“He’s getting closer,” Anderson said. “It’s like he’s coming back.”

Greg shook his head and left the pub, his box of Sherlock’s things under his arm.

New Delhi. Hamburg. Amsterdam. New Delhi. Hamburg. Amsterdam.

Trepoff. Hamburg. Who the fuck was bloody Trepoff?

It was nearly a year ago when the bombing in Hamburg happened. Longer ago when Mycroft was in New Delhi. Anthea had just been in Amsterdam with Arnou…

Greg shook his head. He would drive himself crazy making connections where there were none. He would be as bad as Anderson. They were just countries. Mycroft mentioned countless countries in any given week. But still. New Delhi. Hamburg.

Don’t believe in coincidences, Sherlock used to say.

Greg arrived at John’s and put a box of Sherlock’s things down on the side. He didn’t believe him for a moment when John said he had been much better.

“That’s some stuff from my office, some stuff of Sherlock’s, actually,” Greg told him. “I probably should have thrown it out, but I didn’t know if…” He glanced at John.

“No, fine, yeah,” John replied.

Greg stood up and walked over to the box. “Yeah, there’s something here. Um, wasn’t sure whether I should have kept it in.” He took the lid off and picked up the DVD. “You remember the video message he made for your birthday? Oh, I had to practically threaten him.” Greg smiled a bit at the memory. “This is the uncut version. It’s quite funny.” He handed it to John.

“Oh, right.”

Greg pulled a face. “Maybe I shouldn’t have brought it.

“Don’t worry. It’s okay. Probably won’t even watch it.”

 

* * *

 

Greg and Mycroft celebrated Mycroft’s birthday with a quiet meal at home. They made love in front of the fire. It was the first day that month he had seen Mycroft smile so openly and without hesitation.

It was beginning to worry him.

 

* * *

 

Greg skipped a number of court dates, until he received a text from Anthea to tell him the judge was expected to sum up and make a decision in the next hour. He went along in his lunchbreak, sitting down beside her.

“So… what’s it going to be?” he asked.

“Good, I think,” she said. “But how far he will go, I’m not sure.”

They all stood as the judge made his way to his chair, nodding his head to the courtroom to sit as he took his own position behind his table.

“On August 16, I opened a hearing to assess whether the decisions made in the inquests into the deaths of Sherlock Holmes and Richard Brook were the correct ones,” he began. “I would like to thank everyone who took time to compile and present evidence to this court and to those who were willing to testify.

“I will deal with the simplest matter first. The decision in the inquest made in respect of Sherlock Holmes was that on June 12, he committed suicide by jumping from St Bartholomew’s Hospital. Having assessed the evidence presented here in court, I maintain that assessment was the correct one and therefore do not pass it on to be reviewed.

“Moving onto the inquest of Richard Brook. The inquest held into his death found that he was killed with a gunshot. I find that aspect to be wholly correct. But it was found in the original inquest that Sherlock Holmes murdered Mr Brook. The evidence presented to myself by police and forensics experts leads me to believe Mr Brook is likely to have committed suicide. I was convinced by the fingerprint evidence on the gun, by the CCTV footage which showed Mr Brook waiting for Mr Holmes on the rooftop and the mobile phone interaction which showed Mr Brook contacted Mr Holmes to have that meeting. I therefore agree an inquest should be reopened into the death of Mr Brook.

“However, throughout this trial, evidence has come to light that the inquest should not be held into a Richard Brook, but instead into the death of a James Moriarty. I am convinced that the evidence presented in court over the past few months shows Mr Brook did not exist prior to 2011. I am also convinced, beyond all reasonable doubt, though that is not the standard of proof in this case, that Mr Moriarty created Richard Brook.”

Many in the public gallery rose to their feet. The I Believe In Sherlock Holmes club began to chant. Journalists started writing and typing frantically. Greg dropped his head into his hands and he felt Anthea rub his shoulder.

“Order! Order!” the judge demanded.

The noise continued.

Greg lifted his head and looked around. From the corner of his eye he saw Anderson clenching his fist in relief.

“Order,” the judge repeated.

The noise began to die down, until finally, silence reigned.

“Must I remind everyone that this is a court case. Anymore interruptions and I will begin having people expelled from this courtroom.” The room remained silent.

“My decision is this,” the judge continued. “I will order a new inquest to be opened into the death of James Moriarty. With the new evidence which has come to light in respect of his trial into the break-ins at the Tower Of London, Bank Of England and Pentonville Prison, I am taking the unusual step of having the evidence re-evaluated on the basis of his coercion and threatening of the jury.

“I will say one thing. Throughout the inquests of Mr Holmes and Mr Brook – now evidently Mr Moriarty – the name of Mr Holmes was dragged through the mud in a manner I find repugnant and unacceptable. The fact of law remains that we cannot slander the dead. But through damaging the dead’s reputation, we harm their family and friends. I would urge the press today to consider the manner in which they report the future inquests into Mr Moriarty. It is a great shame that Mr Holmes’ true innocence has only become evident in the past few months. Thank you again to those who testified. And I now consider this case to be closed.”

“All rise,” the clerk called out and everyone stood. Greg glanced down at his watch. As the judge left, he nodded towards Anthea. The press were still typing, some rushing out to make phone calls.

Greg walked out of the building with Anthea in silence. As they stood on the steps, she typed a quick message on her phone. “I’ve informed Mycroft,” she said. “How are you?”

Greg shook his head and shrugged. “That’s it,” he said as he put his coat and scarf on. “I’ve been working on this for two years.”

“I know. I know it’s been a long road for you.”

“And now what?” Greg asked, looking at her.

“Only Mycroft can provide the answer to that,” she said somewhat cryptically before walking down the steps and towards her car.

Greg wandered down to the coffee counter beside the court and Anderson joined him there. “Brilliant news,” he said.

Greg smiled a bit and nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, it was a good decision.”

“Did you see that coming? That the judge would expose Moriarty like that?”

Greg shook his head. “I hoped. But I thought it would take another inquest for it to get to that stage.”

“I worked out how he did it!”

“How who did what?” Greg asked, paying for his coffee.

“How Sherlock faked his death!”

“Oh good God, not this again.”

This time Derren Brown. Bloody Derren Brown.

“A bungee rope, a mask, Derren Brown,” Greg sneered. “Two years, and the theories keep getting more stupid. How many more have you got for me today?”

“Well, you know the paving slabs in that whole area, even the exact ones that he landed on, you know they were all…”

“Guilt,” Greg cut him off. “That’s all this is. You pushed us all into thinking that Sherlock was a fraud, you and Donovan. You did this, and it killed him, and he’s staying dead. Do you honestly believe that if you have enough stupid theories, it’s gonna change what really happened?”

“I believe in Sherlock Holmes,” Anderson said.

“Yeah, well that won’t bring him back.”

He stood and listened to the journalists give their reports on the live news broadcasts. “After extensive police investigations, Richard Brook did indeed prove to be the creation of James Moriarty… Amidst unprecedented scenes, there was uproar in court as Sherlock Holmes was vindicated and cleared of all suspicion… But sadly, all this comes too late for the detective who became something of a celebrity two years ago… Questions are now being asked as to why police let matters get so far.”

Anderson fell into step beside Greg. He thought he’d feel thrilled. Instead, he was just so sad Sherlock was gone.

“Well then,” Greg said. “Absent friends. Sherlock.”

“Sherlock,” Anderson repeated.

“And may God rest his soul.” They both drank their coffees.

After returning to work, Greg handed Sally a bunch of flowers and a bottle of wine and gave her a long hug. They stood together in her office, holding onto each other without a word. She smiled at him as they stepped apart. “You didn’t need to do this,” she said.

“No, I did. That case you put together.” Greg shook his head. “It was amazing. Everything you put together was outstanding.”

She smiled. “It was the least I could do. I never thought I’d believe in him. And this…” She sighed. “I know we’ll never let this go. But at least we did something for him. It’s the least we could have done.”

Greg nodded and looked at her desk. “Thank you. Get those flowers in some water.”

She smiled. “Thanks again.”

“Cheers, Donovan,” he said as he walked out and to his own office.

When he got to Crusader House that evening, it was with a bottle of champagne in hand. As numb as he felt inside, today’s result was something worth celebrating. He heard Mycroft pottering around in their bedroom, so he walked straight to the kitchen to grab some glasses. He put them on a tray with the bottle and an array of takeaway menus.

He opened the door to see Mycroft sat on the edge of the bed, dressed in a shirt and his trousers, his head in his hands. He didn’t even look up as Greg walked in. Greg put the tray down on the chest of drawers, and hardly noticed as one of the glasses wobbled before toppling over and smashing.

He knelt down in front of Mycroft on the floor, reaching up to take hold of his hands and draw them gently down from his face. He clasped Mycroft’s hands, looking up at him with concern.

“Mycroft?” he asked gently, rubbing his thumbs against his partner’s. “Hey. What happened?”

Mycroft shook his head. His face, usually so certain, was almost dazed and thoroughly miserable.

“Alright,” Greg whispered. “It’s alright. I’ll just sit here until you’re ready, yeah?”

“Sally Donovan did a wonderful job on the case,” Mycroft murmured.

“Yeah, she did.”

“She did far more than I ever expected. The verdict today…” Mycroft shook his head and squeezed his eyes closed.

“I know,” Greg said.

“No. No, you don’t know.” Mycroft opened his eyes. “You don’t understand what today’s verdict means.”

“Yeah, I do. It means everyone knows Sherlock was innocent all along.”

“Greg,” Mycroft whispered, reaching out to touch his cheek. “You know my feelings for you.”

“Of course I know,” he replied.

“And you know that I believe in the greater good, as you always put it, above all other things. But that the sentiment I feel towards you… and towards Sherlock… is as great as anything I could ever feel.”

Greg frowned a little, looking up at him. “What are you trying to say?”

A few moments passed. Then Mycroft spoke. “My brother isn’t dead.”

Greg blinked a few times. What? His heart began to pound in his chest. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Sherlock isn’t dead.” Mycroft lifted his eyes to meet Greg’s. “I’m sorry.”

Greg leaned back away from him a little, but continued to hold Mycroft’s hand. “Love, did you hit your head? Are you… are you feeling okay?”

“I feel fine.”

Greg stood up, touching Mycroft’s forehead with the backs of his fingers.

“Greg…” Mycroft murmured. “I’m not ill. I’m telling you the truth.”

“No,” Greg half-laughed, a bitterness and numbness there. “You just told me Sherlock’s not dead. How the hell can that possibly be the truth?”

“Because I helped him fake it,” Mycroft replied.

“Fuck,” Greg muttered, the walls beginning to fell as though they were closing in on him. His head felt light, almost dizzy. Like everything was spinning. His skin felt hot and clammy. “Alright, I’m ringing an ambulance,” Greg said. “You’re going to be okay.”

“Greg, I’m not…” Mycroft sighed. “I’m not going mad. Sherlock’s not dead.”

“Yes, he is,” Greg snapped.

Mycroft looked up and stared into his eyes. “No, Greg. It was part of a plan to stop Moriarty. One of several strategies he and I devised. He’s very much alive.”

“No,” Greg said, letting go of Mycroft’s hand and taking a step back, shaking his head. “Shut up.”

“It’s true.”

“No. No, no, no,” he pointed at Mycroft. “Sherlock’s dead. Everyone knows he’s dead. There was an inquest, there must have been a body. Molly just gave testimony in court for God’s sake!”

“Molly was in on it.”

Greg glared at him. “No. I don’t believe you. Stop doing this.”

“Why would I lie?”

“Molly wouldn’t perjure herself. You’re having delusions. You’re ill. Let’s go to a doctor now.”

“Greg!” Mycroft snapped. Greg stared at him. “I don’t have any evidence to give to you. But you have my word. I’m not ill.”

Greg swallowed and clenched his fist. He felt sick. Bewildered. “Then you’ve been lying to me for two years,” Greg murmured, his voice low. He frowned. Mycroft reached for his arm and Greg pulled it away. “Don’t.”

“Greg, I’m sorry. If I can explain-”

“-Explain? How the hell are you going to explain this?” Greg took more steps away from the bed. “You have lied to me for two whole bloody years! You knew what I went through. You saw what happened and you just. Bloody hell, Mycroft.” Greg turned away from him, rubbing his face in his hands.

“I’m sorry. But we had to.”

“You should have told me!” Greg snapped, turning back to him. “Hell, you should have told John!”

“We couldn’t. Please, I can explain everything.”

“I don’t want you to,” Greg shouted at him. He grabbed his coat. “I’m going. Just… just tell me one thing. Is he alright?”

“I don’t know.”

“But he’s alive.”

“Our intelligence suggests-”

“-Bugger your intelligence. Is Sherlock alright?”

“I hope so,” Mycroft said.

Greg swallowed and pulled his coat on. “Christ.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I don’t want to hear it.” And with that, Greg stormed out of the bedroom, and left the flat, slamming the door behind him as he went.


	63. Can We Make The Clocks Run Backwards?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, you lovely, lovely superstars. psychicdreams, Crone, cltc75, cosmicsoup221b, LaTourangelle, Abbennett, JustLookFrightenedAndScuttle, Jaeh, bananas_are_good_9, ianuk, miss_anthr0pe, Mice, WhiskeySally, Kaci, Noctivaga, roosickle, Superwholockgal, Iaccidentlyatemyunicorn, CommunionNimrod, gngrxx, ivefoundmygoldfish (melonpanparade), DaltonG, allmyworldsastage, Copgirl1964, Maliciouspixie5, ladyxdarcy, artemisdecibal, KingTaran, Casandra12, cafeshostakovich, jill, MoonRiver, Leonora.

_October, 2013_

Greg slammed the door and jogged down the stairs. He didn’t hesitate at all; he had to get out of there. He only stopped once he had closed the front door to the building and was stood surrounded by the wind and drizzle. He watched his breath in the air and noticed the puddles illuminated under the lampposts.

Sherlock’s not dead.

He stormed off down the street, fastening his coat as he went. He heard music and chatter as he walked down the road until he found himself outside the pub. He hesitated for a moment before heading inside.

It was a posher pub than one he would have chosen for himself, but that, he supposed, was what you get in Pall Mall. It was warm and altogether too busy, but it meant he could slip through mostly unnoticed. He ordered himself a pint and took it outside, sitting on a cold bench by an outdoor heater, cigarette in one hand, pint in the other.

Sherlock’s not dead.

He stared down at his phone. Mycroft hadn’t text him. He didn’t have messages from anyone else either. Because no one else knew what he had just been told. Lucky them.

Sherlock’s not dead.

He’d been lied to. And he didn’t give a fuck what Mycroft’s reasons were.

Three hours later, and he stumbled into the flat. There was a splinter of light under Mycroft’s office door and Greg shuffled into the bedroom. He grabbed some clothes and carried them to the spare room. He collapsed into bed and fell asleep almost immediately.

 

* * *

 

It was easy to avoid Mycroft in the morning. He always got up first anyway, and he used the en-suite bathroom. By the time Greg got up, Mycroft wasn’t around and he went straight to work.

With his head pounding just a little and the revelation still fresh in his mind, he struggled to concentrate. The words continued to reverberate in his head. Sherlock’s not dead.

And why wasn’t he dead? Why the hell did Mycroft and Sherlock decide him being dead for two years was a good idea? He thought about it on and off all day. And every time he did, he wanted to hit something. And every time he did, he wanted nothing more than to be with Mycroft. Until he remembered it was Mycroft who made him feel like this.

 

* * *

 

 

He let himself into Crusader House at 9.43pm. He had stayed at work far later than he would have done on a normal day. But at least he’d got a lot of work done. He cooked himself a pizza. He was just dishing up some salad to go with it when he heard the footsteps behind him. He didn’t turn around, just continued piling lettuce on his plate. A little too much lettuce maybe, in his effort not to turn around.

“Greg,” Mycroft said.

“Nope.”

Silence. Greg frowned at his plate. Far too much salad. He put some back in the bag.

“If you’d let me explain,” Mycroft began.

“Nope.” Greg picked his plate up and turned around. “I’m not ready. But I don’t have a choice but to be under the same roof as you right now. So nope. You wait for me to come to you.” He walked past him and to the living room, where he switched Sky Sports on and tucked into his dinner.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Mycroft waver in the kitchen door before he eventually set about making himself some dinner.

They didn’t speak, even though they were in the same room, Mycroft visibly despising Greg’s choice of television. Greg knew he was being childish. He found he didn’t really care.

 

* * *

 

The next day was very much the same. He heard Mycroft’s exasperated sigh when Greg ignored him. Greg bit his tongue. As much as he wanted to shout it out, he knew that wouldn’t be the right thing to do.

He took himself to bed. Another night alone.

 

* * *

 

The next night he turned over in bed and looked at the time. 1.32am. He sighed. This wasn’t working. Him, lying wide awake in the spare room, knowing Mycroft was still awake, probably thinking they were over for good.

Greg was heartbroken. He’d tried to stop thinking about it, but he felt betrayed and confused. But without understanding the reasons why Mycroft had done it, how could he just lie there and be angry? Mycroft never did anything without a good reason - even if sometimes those reasons made no sense to anyone else.

He got out of bed, pulling some clothes on.

He stepped out of the spare room. There was a single lamp switched on in the living room. Greg walked through. Mycroft was no where to be seen, but Greg saw the crack of light underneath the door to his office. Just as he was working out what on earth to say, the door opened.

Mycroft stared at him. “Greg.”

“Yeah. Hi.”

Mycroft narrowed his eyes, but his expression was generally unreadable. He’d put his walls up again then. Hidden himself behind an impenetrable facade. “I thought you were asleep,” Mycroft said.

“Thought that might be the case.”

“I was about to make a coffee.”

“Okay.”

Mycroft frowned. “Did you want one?”

“No.”

“Right.” Mycroft hesitated for a moment before turning and walking into the kitchen.

“I take it you’re too busy,” Greg said, following him until he leaned against the kitchen doorway, folding his arms.

“Too busy for what exactly?” Mycroft asked, pouring some water into the kettle. “More silence?”

Greg rolled his eyes. “I want to talk.”

“Good Lord,” Mycroft muttered bitterly. “I was beginning to think you’d lost the power of speech.”

“Fine, if you’re gonna be a dickhead about it then…”

Mycroft turned to face him. “You are acting like a child.”

“It’s a trick I got from Sherlock, God rest his soul… oh wait. Hang on.”

Mycroft folded his arms. “Say what you want to say and do what you’re going to do. Stop dragging it out.” He turned around as the kettle clicked and went to make his coffee.

Greg shook his head and took a seat in Mycroft’s favourite chair in the living room. He looked up as Mycroft carried through two mugs. “I didn’t want coffee,” Greg said.

“Then don’t drink it,” Mycroft replied, putting it on the table beside him so hard that hot coffee spilt onto the coaster and the table, and then taking a seat on the sofa. Mycroft leaned back in the chair, crossing his arms.

Greg raised his eyebrows at him. Mycroft stared back. Greg held his gaze with a hard expression, his chest tight.

And then Mycroft lowered his eyes. He let out a soft breath and relaxed his stony expression. If this had been some sort of war, Greg supposed Mycroft would be waving the white flag right about now.

Greg swallowed and leaned forward to pick up his coffee. Mycroft glanced up at him and frowned. Greg nodded his head a little in a silent thank you for the drink. He had a sip of the scalding coffee and pulled a face when he burnt his mouth. Mycroft pressed his lips together, seemingly biting back a comment. Greg rolled his eyes at himself and put the mug back down.

Greg looked straight at him. “You lied to me for two years.”

“I know.”

Greg bit his lip. He wasn’t sure what he was expecting Mycroft to say, but at least he was acknowledging it. “Was this it? Was this your great big secret?”

“It was.”

Greg glanced down at his knees. “So go on. What was this all about then? Another big lie to save my life?”

“It started that way.”

Greg groaned. “For God’s sake.”

“Greg. I know you have a lot of questions. But can I try and explain this from the beginning?”

Greg hesitated for a moment. “Yeah. Yeah, alright.”

“Moriarty had gunmen trained on three people Sherlock cared about. If Sherlock lived, then they would die. We planned to take Moriarty out. When Sherlock met him on that roof, we have several plans in mind. In the end, we were forced to choose Operation Lazarus. We had to pretend Sherlock died in order to save those three people.”

“And then what?”

“We had hoped we could take those gunmen out and then return Sherlock to London. But we soon realised how deep Moriarty’s network went. If we killed those gunmen, there would be more. And more. And so Sherlock began to travel the world, dismantling the web, one thread at a time. If those in that web ever got wind that Sherlock was alive, his life, and the lives of those three, would be in immediate danger. Goodness knows how many other lives would have been at stake too.”

“Lazarus?”

Mycroft frowned. “I’m sorry?”

“Lazarus?”

“Oh. The operation was named after Lazarus of Bethany, a story of a miracle attributed to Jesus in the Gospel of John, in which Jesus restores him to life after his death.”

Greg snorted. “So were you Jesus in all this? Who… who were the three?”

“John Watson.”

“Oh right, yeah.” Yeah, that made sense.

“Mrs Hudson. And you.”

Greg stared at him. “What? Me?”

“Yes, Greg. Yes, you were one of the three.”

Greg had a sip of his coffee, let the words sink in. “Wait, so, he did it to protect me? Sherlock doesn't even know my first name and he did it to save me?”

“Moriarty had guns pointed at three of the people Sherlock cared about the most.”

“John, I get. Mrs Hudson, I get. But me. I don't get it. Why not you?”

“Do you honestly think Sherlock doesn't realise what you have sacrificed for him?” Mycroft asked. “That he doesn't appreciate how many times you have saved his life? My brother may appear unfeeling, but he rather lets emotions get in the way on occasion. Of course you. You gave him chances when no one else would. Not even me.”

Greg frowned. “He… he sacrificed his life for us. Even if he didn’t die, that’s what he did.”

“Yes.”

God, Sherlock, you crazy, stupid bugger. “How’s he doing? Really?”

“I don’t know,” Mycroft said. “We lost track of him in Eastern Europe.”

“Have you spoken to him? Since he ‘died’?”

“Yes.”

“Have… did you see him?”

“Once.”

“Where? Wait.” Greg held his hand up and pointed at Mycroft with a knowing expression. “New Delhi.”

Mycroft frowned. “How did you know?”

“I’m not an idiot.” Greg paused. “And Anderson mentioned New Delhi and I remembered you going there.”

“Anderson?”

“Yeah. He figured it out.”

Mycroft stared at him. “I thought he was hallucinating Sherlock when he had a breakdown.”

“He was. Apparently he wasn’t just feeling guilty. He really thought it all through. So… did Sherlock stamp a cigarette out on your arm?”

Mycroft nodded. “He was struggling with drugs.”

“Jesus.” Greg rubbed his face. “I could have been here for you. If you’d just told me.”

“You would have perjured yourself in this recent trial.”

“I don’t care.”

“I care. You are a policeman. And you can’t lie to save your life.”

“Good job you can, hey?”

Mycroft looked down.

Greg sighed. “What do you want Mycroft?”

“I wish. If I could go back two years. I would do it all differently.”

“You can’t. You can’t just go back and undo it, that’s now how the world works. So right now, what do you want?”

“To bring Sherlock home.”

Greg nodded. He wanted to give that bloody genius a good slap around the face and a hug. The ache he thought had been erased with time had returned with a vengeance. He missed him so much. “Yeah,” he agreed. “Yeah.”

“What do you want?” Mycroft asked.

“Sherlock home. I want. I want to fast-forward three months. Have Sherlock back and this not matter.”

“If I can’t undo the past then you can’t go forward in time either.”

“No,” Greg agreed. “And I don’t want to be three months in the future without you. But I don’t know how we get through this. I don’t know how I forgive this.”

“What are you saying?”

“I don’t know. I just don’t know where we go from here. I mean. It’s going to take some time but… You know. I am so fucking furious with you. I have never been so bloody angry. And I have never loved you so goddamn much either, and that’s also royally pissing me off.”

“I’m sorry?”

“You brought him back, Mycroft. It feels like you bloody resurrected him or something. How can I be mad at you for that? You brought him back to us.”

Mycroft frowned a bit.

“Mycroft?” Greg pressed.

“I don’t understand.”

“What don’t you get?”

“What I did. I’m quite certain it’s unforgivable.”

Greg watched him for a moment. He wasn’t looking so immaculate this evening. He must have been working long hours to have let his suit get so crumpled. He must have slept very little to have got those dark circles under his eyes. “You thought I was gonna leave,” Greg realised. “You thought I was going to leave you.”

“I was rather waiting for that inevitability, yes.”

“Look. I don’t trust you. You lied to me. And there’s a whole heap of other stuff I haven’t even sorted out in my head yet.” Mycroft flinched a little at that, just a little. Just a small narrowing of one eye and a nervous lick of his lips. “But unless I got something wrong, I thought we were planning to spend the rest of our lives together,” Greg finished with a sigh. Mycroft continued to watch him with a wary expression.

“Mycroft,” Greg continued, when he realised Mycroft wasn’t going to speak. “I think you did this for the right reasons. You and Sherlock. You hurt a lot of people. And that’s never going to go away. Not for John. Maybe not for me. But I didn’t get into this thinking you were some sort of saint. I didn’t think that you were never going to make mistakes. And don’t get me wrong, this is a whopping big mistake, and it’s going to take a long time for me to trust you again. But when I fast-forward three months and Sherlock’s home… Mycroft, I still see me with you. I want to grow old with you. And I hope that’s what you want too.”

“It is.”

“And what else have you lied to me about?”

“Nothing. This is all of it. And the very worst of it.”

Greg took a long sip of his coffee. They sat in silence for several minutes, drinking and reflecting.

“Did you prevent a thorough police investigation into Sherlock and Moriarty’s death straight after it happened?” Greg finally asked.

“Yes.”

“Why did you avoid me for months?”

“To pretend I didn’t care about you, and that I blamed you for Sherlock’s death so that those following you didn’t for a second believe Sherlock wasn’t dead.”

“And then when the the gunman was gone, that policeman. Owen. When he went, you finally talked to me again.”

“Correct.”

Greg sighed and rubbed his knees. Mycroft stood up and walked over to him before holding his hands out. Greg paused for a moment before taking them, looking up at him. It felt so good to feel the warmth of Mycroft’s touch again. He hadn’t realised how much he’d missed it.

“I know I let you down,” Mycroft said. “And you must believe me when I tell you that keeping this secret has been agony.”

“No more secrets.”

“None, I promise.”

Greg squeezed his hands and stood up. He gazed at him for a second before letting go of his hands and wrapping his arms around him, pulling him close. Mycroft’s arms wound around him and they clung to each other.

“I missed you,” Greg admitted, inhaling the scent of his aftershave, the faint trace of cigarettes and coffee.

“We’ll have a quiet weekend.”

“Yes please.”

Greg pulled back to look at him.

“Did you mean it?” Mycroft asked.

“Mean what?”

“That we will be spending the rest of our lives together.”

“Yeah,” Greg said, touching his cheek. “Yeah, of course I meant that.” He kissed him gently, savouring it, that soft intimate touch. “I thought that was obvious.” He frowned a bit, watching Mycroft’s face. He saw it then. The fear. Mycroft had really thought it was over. “Shh,” Greg whispered, lifting his hands so he could stroke his fingers against Mycroft’s temples. “You know it, in here.”

Mycroft nodded.

Greg dropped one hand and rested it over Mycroft’s heart. “In here too.”

“Emotions don’t come from the heart, they’re the result of chemical reactions in the brain,” Mycroft murmured.

Greg smiled. “I know. But you feel it in your chest.”

Mycroft nodded again.

Greg kissed him. Mycroft responded to the light touch, his hands moving up and down Greg’s back, crossing over his shoulderblades and along his spine.

Greg studied him for a moment. “Tell me what it is.”

Mycroft shook his head. “I can’t.”

“Mycroft,” Greg warned. “Don’t shut down on me now.”

“My mind’s racing.”

Greg nodded and took hold of Mycroft’s hands, lifting them up to his face. Mycroft’s fingers traced over Greg’s jaw, across his chin, his thumb brushing against his bottom lip. Greg watched his eyes, the way they flickered over his face.

“Five hours sleep,” Mycroft murmured, his thumb stroking under Greg’s eye. He lowered his hand, touching his cheek again. His hands ran down Greg’s shirt sleeves to his wrists, where he lifted Greg’s hands to inspect them. “The printer at work ran out of ink and you replaced it.”

“Yeah. Hey.” Greg squeezed his upper arms. “What do you need?”

“Can we go to bed?”

Greg nodded. “Of course. It’s really late.”

“Will you… will you come to our bed?”

Greg gave him a tender kiss. “You couldn’t stop me.” He took hold of Mycroft’s hands, walking backwards and guiding Mycroft there until he was able to reach out and turn the handle. He let go of Mycroft as they walked in and Mycroft turned on a dim light.

Greg took a seat on the bed, sitting up against the headboard. Mycroft knelt down beside him, Greg instinctively turning towards him. Mycroft brought his hands up to Greg’s face and pressed their foreheads together.

“Love,” Greg murmured, stroking his shoulder. “Come on. It’s okay.” He wasn’t entirely sure how he had gone from being the comforted to the comforter, but something about Mycroft’s whole demeanour was bothering him. If he admitted it to himself, Mycroft’s mood had bothering him for weeks. And if it was all due to this - this secret - then letting it out should have helped. But it clearly hadn’t.

Mycroft’s fingers were tracing little lines over Greg’s face, tracing, Greg suspected, wrinkles and lines. Soft fingertips brushed against his stubble. They dipped to his neck, down his throat.

Greg stayed still, one hand firm on Mycroft’s shoulder. Mycroft unbuttoned the first few buttons of Greg’s shirt. His fingers moved to his chest, the touches so delicate and light. He unfastened the other buttons, letting Greg’s shirt fall open. He lifted his head, breaking the point of contact between their foreheads.

Greg quickly studied his face, lifting one hand to cup his cheek, the other still tight on Mycroft’s shoulder. Mycroft’s eyes were still flickering over his face, as though mapping it all. There was an urgency there. His eyes moving rapidly, as though cataloguing Greg and trying to assess him. And Greg thought maybe he understood. That Mycroft was trying to piece together what he’d missed in two days, and trying to figure out how to make this better.

But Greg knew Mycroft’s head, not very well, but enough. And he had to slow him down, ease it all, before he was completely overwhelmed.

He let go of Mycroft before taking his shirt off. He pulled down his tracksuit bottoms, sliding them down with his boxers and then toeing off his socks, until he sat naked on the bed. He took hold of Mycroft’s hands, pressing them to his chest.

Mycroft’s eyes met his and Greg nodded. “It’s alright,” he said. “You take all the time you need.”

Mycroft nodded and pressed their lips together. Greg hummed into the kiss, relaxing into it, letting Mycroft dictate the pace. Mycroft parted Greg’s lips with his tongue, tasting and searching. But for all of its eroticism, it wasn’t intended for passion. Mycroft drew back, studying him.

“Whose birthday was it?” he asked. “You taste of icing.”

Greg smiled. “It was Leon’s.”

“You brought some cake home,” Mycroft murmured.

“Yeah. Ate it at midnight. Couldn’t sleep.”

“I don’t understand,” Mycroft said, dropping his hands. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“Where exactly should I be?”

“I betrayed you in some of the very worst ways.”

“I know,” Greg said. “Come on now.” He touched Mycroft’s forehead with three fingers. “Shut it down. Do this one thing for me.”

He took hold of Mycroft’s jacket, slipping it down his shoulders. He let his hands slide down Mycroft’s arms as he took it off the rest of the way. He lifted Mycroft’s arms, one at a time, and unfastened his cuffs, putting the cufflinks on the bedside table.

He unbuttoned his waistcoat. He slipped that off. Then unfastened his tie, letting his fingers brush against Mycroft’s neck. He slid it off, turned his attention to his shirt and eventually removed that too.

“Come on,” he whispered, cupping Mycroft’s face and rubbing his thumbs against his cheeks. “This is me. It’s you. The world doesn’t end when your brain switches off.” He leaned forward to kiss Mycroft’s temple. “You’re scaring me,” he admitted, his voice soft. “I need you to come back to me now.”

He pulled back, still holding Mycroft’s face in his hands. Holding Mycroft’s heart in his hands. He dropped one hand, resting it on the left side of Mycroft’s chest until he could feel the beat of his heart and could begin to move his thumb in time.

Mycroft watched him with parted lips, before lifting his own hand, resting it over Greg’s heart. Greg’s chest tightened, the gesture close to breaking him as he appreciated this fragile figure in front of him.

“The world ends when you’re not there,” Mycroft said, averting his eyes. “I thought. I thought I knew you would leave. That it would end. People are such fools. Letting these emotions dictate their lives.”

“The world didn’t end,” Greg said. “Because I was always here.” They eyed each other for a moment. Greg shook his head. “For God’s sake,” he muttered, cupping Mycroft’s head and pulling him close so he could crush their mouths together.

Mycroft let out a sound of surprise before surrendering to Greg’s possessive kisses, as Greg tugged him closer until Mycroft was straddling his thighs. They kissed until they were breathless, and even then, it wasn’t enough. They exchanged kisses which told a million conversations, nails scraping on tender skin. Greg stripped Mycroft’s trousers and underwear off.

He pressed the lubricant into Mycroft’s hands and rocked his hips with the curling of Mycroft’s fingers inside him. Greg urged him on, pleading and kissing him hard.

He accepted Mycroft into his body, holding him there with his legs. Panting, they stared at each other.

“Switch it off,” Greg growled, gripping Mycroft’s hair and pulling him down for a frenetic kiss.

Mycroft drove inside him, relentless and needy. Their moans swirled around the room, Greg’s nails scraping pink lines into Mycroft’s skin. Greg moved with him, the pleasure building in his stomach, desperately unwilling for it to end, craving release all the same.

He bit down on Mycroft’s neck - hard - and felt Mycroft’s hips stutter as he came. Greg wrapped his hand around his length, stroked once, and let go too, crying out his partner’s name and riding the crest and then giving in.

He clung to Mycroft’s body, hot and clammy. He lifted one hand to wipe the sweat from his own brow, pinching his eyes closed. Mycroft rolled onto his back, reaching for the tissues to clean them both. Greg turned onto his side. Mycroft turned his head to look at him.

Greg nodded. “Yeah?”

“Mm. Yes. Silent.”

“Good.”

Mycroft stood up to use the bathroom and then they swapped places. Greg joined Mycroft in bed, turning the light off. He lay on his back, urging Mycroft to curl up to him, which he did with a relieved sigh. Greg stoked his hair. Though exhausted, he waited for Mycroft to drift off first. When he felt his body relax, his breathing even out, he gave in to the tiredness taking over his body.

 

* * *

 

When they woke, it wasn’t with everything behind them, all failings forgotten and the unsaid words unnecessary. It was like learning how to walk in a three-legged race. Two separate entities conjoined, trying to muddle a way through together.

Two hearts could never beat entirely in time, though they coordinated their breathing as Mycroft held Greg from behind, his breath hot against Greg’s neck.

Greg curled their fingers together, closing his eyes, drifting into another sleep. As he felt himself begin to go, he heard Mycroft’s soft words against his skin. That quiet “I love you.”

Greg squeezed his fingers, and with no-less feeling, he mumbled back a “love ya too.”

 

* * *

 

They didn’t talk about it much after that. It still gnawed at Greg, and he had to turn down a pub night which he knew Anderson would be going to. Keeping the secret from Sally and Sam was one thing. Keeping it from Anderson and John, who had both been hit so hard by Sherlock’s death, was another thing entirely.

He and Mycroft were trying to muddle through. They went for a few nice meals and talked about work and Greg asked him to reel of deductions about the people there, and it all made him laugh.

They made love in their bed and in the shower and on the sofa, and they read together and watched television.

Greg was stretched along the sofa on a Saturday morning, reading a book and eating a slice of toast when Mycroft returned home from an impromptu meeting. He leaned over the back of the chair to kiss Greg’s forehead.

“All good?” Greg asked.

“Mostly,” Mycroft said as he unfastened his tie and the top button on his shirt. “If the politicians stopped lying, it would be a lot easier. Thankfully they all have the most obvious tells.”

“Maybe you should teach me a trick or two so I’ll know next time you lie to me.” The words were out of Greg’s mouth before he had time to stop himself. He regretted saying it, but he couldn’t hide the bitterness still bubbling away inside him.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow in return, along with an icy glare.

“Oh come on, don’t give me that,” Greg said. “I’m allowed to still be pissed off.”

“Greg.”

“No. Don’t you dare try and use that look on me. Like I’m the one who fucked up.”

“For goodness sake,” Mycroft said, pushing away from the sofa and beginning to walk into his office.

“Mycroft you lied to me. For two years. And now you expect me to just get over it. It doesn’t work like that.”

“Then why are you still here?” Mycroft snapped, opening the door to his office and slamming it behind him.

Greg groaned and rubbed his face. Shit. It was a Saturday, for Christ’s sake, one of their special days where they tried to ignore work and aimed to spend time together. They had theatre tickets for later, to see Kevin Spacey in something at The Old Vic.

It annoyed Greg to no end that Mycroft could get self-righteous at him, like he was the one with the problem. Like he was the one who spent two years lying.

Greg stayed on the sofa for another hour, mulling everything over in his mind. Eventually he went to the kitchen and made Mycroft a cup of tea, which he carried through to his office. Mycroft didn’t look up at him, just continued typing.

Greg put his mug down onto the coaster. “Peace offering,” he said.

Mycroft’s eyes flicked up to his and then at the mug. His face softened then and he sighed, reaching for Greg’s hand, which Greg let him take. “I’m sorry,” Mycroft said. “I’m not dealing with this very well.”

“You and me both. You going to be done with work soon? We can watch a film. Eat some lunch.”

Mycroft nodded and closed his laptop. “It can wait,” he said.

Greg smiled and pressed a light kiss to his forehead before leading him out. They curled up on the sofa together to watch The Green Mile, sharing tender kisses it felt like they had been too unsure to initiate in the past few weeks.

After a meal at an Argentinean restaurant, they went to the theatre and both enjoyed the performance. Mycroft managed to get them backstage and Greg had a photo taken with Kevin Spacey, and he was the envy of the Yard when he showed it around on Monday.

 

* * *

 

Greg and Mycroft went over to Sally and Sam’s house one Friday night. Mycroft spent a lot of time marvelling at Sam’s art work and murals. It was a relaxed evening where they were all able to laugh together and exchange stories about work and Sam’s music experiences.

The alcohol flowed, and Mycroft seemed to enjoy himself in their company. They got into one of Mycroft’s cars at the end of the evening, smiling and kissing and laughing.

When they got in, they were still wrapped around each other, tugging at each other’s clothes. “God, Mycroft,” Greg grumbled as he tugged at his waistcoat. “Will you think about wearing less clothes one day? You’re not very accessible.”

Mycroft chuckled, kissing along Greg’s neck before capturing his mouth in another kiss. They left a trail of clothes through the living room and bedroom as they went, until they finally tumbled naked onto the bed, exploring each other with their hands.

They ended up with Greg on top, their cocks pressed between their bodies as they rocked their hips and exchanged leisurely kisses. Greg loved this. When they were able to take it slow and really enjoy each other.

They were still kissing when Mycroft reached for the bedside cabinet and took out the bottle of lubricant and passed it to Greg. The promise of what it meant made Greg groan.

He took his time kissing Mycroft’s body, savouring every inch of him. When they were together like this, he could forget everything else.

Eventually he slicked his fingers, pressing two inside and watching all of Mycroft’s reactions, his every gasp and sigh. He would never get over just how well he knew him, how he could push his buttons.

It wasn’t long until Mycroft was flipping them over until he was straddling Greg’s hips. He controlled the pace as he sunk down on Greg’s cock until he was buried inside. Greg let out a low moan. Mycroft’s lips were parted, cheeks flushed. Greg pulled him down for a kiss.

Mycroft began to move, only a little, and Greg followed him. They held each other’s eyes. Greg was lost in him.

“You look fucking beautiful,” he murmured, reaching out to rub Mycroft’s nipple with his fingers.

Mycroft’s cheeks turned a deeper red as Greg wrapped a hand around his cock, stroking him as he began to move his own hips, thrusting up into him.

They came together, their sounds lost in a deep kiss.

A while later, they lay naked in bed, Mycroft pouring them a glass of red wine each. Greg smiled, curling onto his side and stroking Mycroft’s chest. “Mmm,” he said. “Y’do the best sex.”

Mycroft chuckled, passing Greg a glass of wine. “I consider it a joint effort,” he said.

Greg grinned at him, sitting up and kissing his shoulder. He sipped the wine, tipping his head back against the wall. “So, come on. Let me hear some of Sherlock’s adventures.”

Mycroft frowned at him. “Sherlock’s adventures?”

“Yeah. You must know what he’s been up to. I’m curious.”

“It’s classified, I’m afraid,” Mycroft murmured. “Only two people know the full extent of it, and I’m afraid that is myself and Sherlock. I’m unable to share any of the details.”

“Yeah, but this is me,” Greg said. “I’ve signed some of your national secret forms. You can trust me with anything.”

Mycroft sipped his wine. “Perhaps when he returns, I can share some of the superficial details.”

“Mycroft,” Greg murmured. “C’mon. I thought he was dead for two years. At least fill in some of the gaps.”

“I can’t.”

“You don’t trust me,” Greg said, staring at him. “What the hell did I do to give you reason not to trust me?”

“Greg, please,” Mycroft said. “I have always trusted you.”

“You used to tell me everything. You didn’t give a crap about your national security. You trusted me. What is it now? We’re too close so now you can’t tell me anything?”

“As good a reason as any,” Mycroft said.

“You don’t, do you? You don’t trust me. You think someone will tie me to a chair and torture me and I’ll spill my guts in five minutes.”

“No one knows how they will react under that kind of intense scrutiny,” Mycroft said.

“Yeah, well, you do. You’ve lived it. Mycroft, I’d give my life for you and I wouldn’t say a single word about your secrets.”

“Will you stop this?” Mycroft snapped at him.

“Stop this? How the hell can I stop this? I don’t trust you, and you don’t trust me either. I mean, what are you going to do if some other Moriarty-type nutter comes along? Are you going to pretend to kill yourself and let me grieve for two years?”

“Greg-”

“And you know what, Mycroft, you have no idea what I went through when Sherlock died. The inquest and the grieving and nightmares. And you know why you didn’t know that? Because you were not there for me. And that was fine. I dealt with that. Now I find out you knew Sherlock wasn’t dead and you still let me go through all that by myself. You always told me you didn’t abandon me. But you did. You left me all by myself out there.”

Greg frowned, these things he didn’t even know he was thinking beginning to tumble out. “Was that some part of the plan? That if I was suspended then it was clear it was the Met’s mistake? Was I some sort of proof that Sherlock really had killed himself?”

“It.” Mycroft sighed. “It helped, yes.”

“You have no idea how much that destroyed me,” Greg hissed at him. “You don’t know, because you weren’t there. You know who was there for me? My cheating, sodding ex-wife. Not the man I was in love with. It was Jane. She supported me through that when you sat in your Ivory Tower and let it happen. Do you know what I did, Mycroft? How much I drank to forget all of it? Do you know what it’s like to think you betrayed someone so badly that they killed themselves? Because I do. And do you know what it’s like to think the person you love most in the entire world sat by and let that all happen when they could have stopped it? You could have just told me. Even if I had to go through that hearing, doing it knowing the truth would have been so, so much easier. I thought. I thought I lost my job. I lost my friends. Sherlock, John, Sally. All of them. I lost you. I lost you forever. You always said trust was the most important thing to you. Well, you know what, I don’t trust you. I don’t think I can trust you again. So, what, for the love of God, is the point of all this?” Greg clenched his fist before turning to Mycroft. “Come on.”

“If that’s how you feel, then just go,” Mycroft said coldly.

Greg shook his head in disbelief, getting out of bed and pulling his dressing gown on. “I’ll start moving my stuff out tomorrow. Christ, if you can’t even be bothered to say sorry…” He grabbed his phone and slammed the door behind him. He stormed to the spare room and got under the covers without turning the light out.

He wasn’t sure how long he lay awake for, but he fell asleep eventually. He was woken up by his phone and Sally’s name on his screen. He answered it. “Lestrade.”

“Hi. I’m sorry to call on your day off, but we’ve got a triple homicide, and we’re short-staffed and-”

“-I’m coming in. Don’t apologise.” He hung up. Thank God he had work to take his mind off bloody Mycroft.

Mycroft wasn’t in the flat when Greg got up. He grabbed his clothes, showered, and headed for the Yard. He joined Sally at a crime scene a few hours later, and he was just talking to her when his phone went off.

He looked down at the screen. Mycroft. He hesitated for a second, not sure he felt like answering it. But curiosity got the better of him. “Lestrade,” he said.

“Greg.” Mycroft paused. “I’m afraid I’m going to be away for a few weeks.”

Greg bit his lip. “What’s happening?”

“I’m retrieving Sherlock from his captors.”

“Cap-” Greg started to say, then noticed Sally on the other side of the room. “Captains?” he said instead.

“Captains? Oh. People are with you, I see. Well-caught. Yes, he’s got himself into some difficulty.”

“Is he alright?” Greg asked.

“I hate to leave on such bad terms,” Mycroft said, ignoring the question. “But I hope you will continue to think of Crusader House as your home and will wait until I return until making any… decisions affecting our long-term future. I know it’s a lot to ask.”

Greg stayed quiet for a minute. “Just be safe,” he said. “Just be safe and come back home to me.”

There was more silence over the line until Mycroft spoke. “Very well.” A pause. And then. “I love you with all of my heart. I am so sorry.”

Greg turned away from Sally, not because he wanted to hide the words from her, but because he didn’t want her to notice the emotion behind them. “I love you too,” he said. “Just come home to me, Mycroft.”

“I will.”

They both stayed quiet then, almost unwilling to hang up, but not sure what to say.

“I need to go,” Mycroft finally said.

“I love you,” Greg told him again, suddenly gripped by unexpected fear.

“I love you,” Mycroft said. “I will call if I can. Talk soon.” He hung up and Greg sighed as he lowered the phone from his ear. He looked around as Sally squeezed his shoulder.

“You alright, boss?” she asked.

Greg nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, fine, Mycroft’s just going on a trip.”

She gave him a sympathetic smile. “Just give me a ring if you need anything.”

Greg forced a smile. “It’s alright,” he said. But inside he couldn’t help but worry.


	64. I Will Still Be Here When The Dust Has Cleared

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANKS GUYS!: miss_anthr0pe, CommunionNimrod, psychicdreams, ianuk, WhiskeySally, Lilys, JustLookFrightenedAndScuttle, MoonRiver, LaTourangelle, ladyxdarcy, bananas_are_good_9, KingTaran, Abbennett, cltc75, Mice, fayetree, undun, Copgirl1964, gngrxx, Jaeh, nasri, rozenmakai. MAJOR HUGS.

_October, 2013_

_I will call if I can. Talk soon._

Some nights, when Greg woke up from a nightmare alone in bed coated in sweat, he wondered if they would be the last words he would ever hear Mycroft say.

The thought made his chest hurt and hands shake and made it impossible to return to bed. He would stumble through the darkness to the living room, and hold a cushion to his chest and stare at the fireplace and the picture of himself near his father and mother when he was a child.

When he couldn’t sleep, he’d sit up with a laptop. He searched the internet for all sorts of household things, like frames for pictures he would take of the two of them together when Mycroft got home. He bought new bowls to replace the one he’d cracked last week. And he bought Mycroft gifts. Little stupid ones, like an invisible ink pen and a dinosaur bottle opener. When they arrived, he wrapped them all in black wrapping paper. He built up a little collection of gifts beside the fire.

A bottle of whiskey. A new scarf. A new blend of expensive coffee. On a couple of days, when he had managed to sleep and didn’t need to buy anything, he wrote a little note.

_October 21 - Today I split coffee on my office floor. The carpet’s beige. I’ve tried moving my desk around to cover it, but now everything feels out of place and weird._

_October 24 - Ah fuck, I miss you. You stupid bastard. Come home._

He put those little post-it notes into envelopes and added them to the ever-growing pile of things.

It was the only comfort he had. That Mycroft would come home so he could open them all. He had never been in Crusader House by himself for so long before, and it was driving him crazy.

He had one night with Sally and Sam, watching The Consulting Detectives in one of their gigs. He had a good night, but kept his mobile phone on the table at all times in case Mycroft might call or text. It was always wishful thinking.

He emailed Anthea that night, when he’d had a bit too much to drink.

 

MESSAGES Anthea Boyette  
12.04am: He’s fine, Greg. I  
promise. Come by his Whitehall  
office and we can have a cup  
of tea. Regards, Anthea.

 

He did just that one afternoon, and he sat behind Mycroft’s desk while Anthea kept busy on her phone and her computer. They didn’t say much, Anthea never seemed inclined to give much away unless they were out at an extravagant party. But being in Mycroft’s office was comforting, and he was grateful to her for inviting him.

Missing Mycroft might have been the reason why Mulder and Scully entered his life. He had seen the advert on the pinboard at work. One of the press office team’s cats had given birth to a litter and they were selling some.

Not sure why he was doing it, Greg asked if he could take a look. He fell in love in an instant. The press officer invited him into her home and he knelt down as the little creatures - one with folded ears, one without - tiptoed over to him. Fluffy and small, with grey and black stripes, they made him smile properly for the first time in weeks.

The second he picked them up, he knew he wouldn’t want to put them back down.

The next day, with everything two little cats could need already purchased, Greg brought Mulder and Scully home to Crusader House. They entertained him all evening, scampering about then falling asleep, then running about again.

He put their bed on the floor of the bedroom, and listening to their little mews and purrs helped ease him into sleep as he lay on Mycroft’s side of the bed.

 

* * *

_November 2013._

The day had been a long one. It was the same as it had been the last few weeks. He loved his new job. He loved the payrise and the responsibilities. But he craved going out and putting some handcuffs on a criminal. He missed the excitement of a chase now he was more desk-bound. He felt like he had never signed his name so many times in one day in his life.

In the afternoon, he went to court to watch a new PC give evidence and support them through it. And then he got stuck there, talking to prosecution lawyers. They ended up having a drink and some chips down the pub, discussing how they could work together better in the future.

He walked to the car park afterwards, hunting in his pockets. He heard something clink, and looked around before pulling out his cigarette packet. He drew one to his mouth, taking out his lighter.

“Those things’ll kill you.”

He froze. That voice. And he knew Sherlock would be coming home, but not today, he hadn’t been prepared for it to happen today. And that meant Sherlock was alive. And although he’d been prepared for that particular news for weeks now, he wasn’t ready to acknowledge it yet. What was he supposed to do? This was Sherlock. Alive Sherlock, and goddamn him for the past two fucking years… and all pain he’d gone through…

“Oh, you bastard,” Greg growled at him. The bastard, for doing this to him. To all of them.

Sherlock stepped out of the shadows in the same coat he always used to wear. He looked just the same. They might as well have stepped back in time. For all Greg knew, they’d managed to slide into some parallel universe where Sherlock never jumped at all. “It’s time to come back,” Sherlock said. “You’ve been letting things slide, Graham.”

“Greg,” Greg corrected.

“Greg.”

Greg continued to stare at him. Sherlock. The hair, the coat, nothing had changed. Nothing had changed. And then he stepped forward and pulled him into a tight hug, closing his eyes and savouring it.

Sherlock was home. Back in London, alive and well and it was the most bloody fantastic thing he’d ever heard.

After a few moments, Sherlock patted him awkwardly on his back. “Lestrade,” Sherlock muttered.

“Mmm.”

“Lestrade. Off.”

Greg laughed and stepped back, shaking his head, but he held his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders for a few moments. “Bloody hell, you’re an idiot,” he muttered, affection in his tone. “What the heck happened to your lip?”

“Hm?” Sherlock reached up to touch his mouth. “Oh. John.”

Greg winced. “Shit. I’m sorry, Sherlock.”

“It’s fine. He’ll come round. What are you working on?”

Greg stared at him. “What am I working on?”

“Cases.”

“Oh. Lots of stuff. I can find-”

“-Contact me tomorrow.” And with that, Sherlock turned and began to walk away.

“Hang on! Sherlock!” Greg called after him.

But Sherlock didn’t turn around. He just walked out of Greg’s sight.

Greg stood there for a long time, completely numb. Just as soon as Sherlock was back, he was gone, and that felt odd too. And Sherlock back meant Mycroft was probably back. Frowning, Greg checked his phone, but there were no messages.

He got into his car and took a deep breath before he drove out of the car park. Even when he’d known Sherlock was alive, it was still overwhelming to see him like that. And where the hell was Mycroft?

He had relaxed by the time he got home, kicking his shoes off and hanging his coat up. He wandered through the living room and headed for the kitchen. He opened the door and stopped in his tracks when he saw Mycroft stood there, his back to him as he prepared some food.

Mycroft turned slowly to face him, and Greg stood for a while, transfixed. He looked tired, but otherwise the same as ever. Greg glanced down at the cat bed, where Mulder and Scully were watching Mycroft with some interest too.

Mycroft put down the cheese grater and took a few steps towards him. “Greg,” he murmured, holding one hand out to him.

Greg nodded, and walked straight over to him, pulling him into his arms and holding him close. “God, Mycroft,” he whispered into his neck, breathing him in and giving him a tight squeeze.

“I’m sorry I left like that-”

“-No, I am-”

“-I had to go, Sherlock was in danger and I-”

“-Shut up and kiss me.”

He let out a soft sigh the second their lips met. He relaxed into the kiss, holding Mycroft’s face in his hands. They broke apart as Scully started walking in and out of their legs, purring. Mycroft smiled and kissed Greg’s cheek. “Kittens?” he asked, an amused smile on his face.

“Mulder and Scully. That’s Scully.”

Mycroft nodded. “Why does Mulder have folded ears?”

“She’s a Scottish fold cat. About half of them are born with folded ears. But she’s fine.”

“I see,” Mycroft said. He looked down at them both and smiled. “They’re quite wonderful.”

Greg grinned. “I thought you’d be a bit mad at me to be honest.”

“No. The moment I walked in and found them wandering around the living room, I must admit I was confused. But I realised if you’d bought us kittens, then you wouldn’t be leaving.”

Greg pulled him in for another hug. “I missed you so much, you daft bugger.”

Mycroft returned the embrace. “You saw Sherlock, I presume?”

“Yeah. The sod called me Graham.”

Mycroft chuckled, stroking Greg’s back. “His manners are intact.”

Greg pulled back and looked at him. “How is he? Honestly?”

“I don’t know,” Mycroft sighed. “I really couldn’t tell you.”

Greg pressed his lips together. “I’ll find him a case tomorrow to get him back in the swing of things. You know John smacked him one? Well, a few times actually.”

Mycroft shook his head. “I don’t know why he thought it could go any differently.”

“He let me hug him, Mycroft.” Greg frowned. “He let me hug him. That’s… y’know, that’s not… not something he would have let me do before.”

“Mmm,” Mycroft agreed. “I’ll see him tomorrow.”

“Does he know about us?”

“No. I thought it better to keep it a secret while he is adjusting. Especially now he will no longer be living with Doctor Watson.”

“Good plan,” Greg said. “Yeah, that works with me. I’m going to break the news to Sally myself.”

“You will tell Sally not to start blaming herself, won’t you?” Mycroft asked.

Greg smiled. “Course. So, what were you cooking?” He bent down to pick Mulder and Scully up, cradling them in his arms as Mycroft returned to making a pasta dish. After fussing over them for a while and then putting them down to let them run amok around the kitchen and living room, he stepped behind Mycroft, nuzzling his neck and holding him.

“You’re very distracting,” Mycroft said with a smile.

Greg grinned, just so happy to have him back. “So are you.”

They ate dinner at the kitchen table, Greg’s socked-feet resting on top of Mycroft’s the whole time. Greg spent the time filling Mycroft in on some of his cases, and where the cats had come from.

After dinner, they went to the living room where the kittens had fallen asleep again. “They’re all full of energy and then they collapse,” Greg said. “It’s quite funny to watch.”

Mycroft glanced at the pile of presents and cards beside the fire. “Someone must be planning your birthday early,” he said, walking towards the gifts and picking one up from the top.

“No. They’re not birthday gifts. They’re…” Greg trailed off, frowning. It had seemed such a good idea in the early hours of the mornings he couldn’t sleep. But now it seemed unnecessarily sentimental and perhaps even a bit pathetic.

Mycroft looked at him with a curious expression.

“They’re for you,” Greg admitted. “They’re… welcome home gifts, I guess.”

Mycroft blinked at him. “I’ve gone away before.”

“I know. I know, it’s stupid.”

“You had more nightmares.”

“Yeah.”

Mycroft nodded and knelt down by the pile of gifts. “Which would you like me to open first?”

Greg smiled a little and took a seat on the floor beside him. “Any,” he said. “They’re nothing major.”

Mycroft leaned towards him, brushing his lips against Greg’s cheek. “It is, Greg. This is incredibly thoughtful.”

Greg smiled and wrapped an arm around him, holding him close as Mycroft opened each present and envelope. They found themselves laughing at the ridiculous gifts it was possible to buy online and how many novelty dinosaurs they would soon have around the flat.

It was then that Greg fully appreciated how tough the past few months had been. He’d had plenty of restless nights wondering about the judge’s decision. And then there was the revelation about Sherlock and those subsequent difficult weeks with Mycroft, and those even more demanding weeks when he wasn’t there at all.

And so it had been hard for them to sit down and just laugh together. To sit and talk about anything which wasn’t Sherlock. Even when they had been in Italy, the question of the court hearing had lingered at the back of their minds.

Greg let out a soft sound as Mycroft’s fingers travelled through his hair.

“You’re thinking,” Mycroft murmured, scooping Scully up and letting her wriggle in his arms before putting her down again. “What’s wrong?”

“Just how.” Greg frowned, trying to find a way to phrase it. “It’s just been.” He sighed, reaching out to stroke Scully before trying to beckon Mulder over too. “It’s just been a tough few months. It feels weird to work for something for so long and then for it just to stop.”

“If you hadn’t put all that work in, you know Sherlock could never have come home.”

Greg paused, watching as Scully began to play with the wrapping paper. “You didn’t need me for all that,” he said. “You’d have done it without me.”

“Perhaps,” Mycroft agreed. “But it would have been a weaker case. You convinced me to let Sally Donovan do her best work, and she did. And the evidence you put together was more than I could have dreamt of.” Greg squeezed his hand. “Greg, I am under no illusions of what I have done to you. That you’re still here is far more than I honestly expected.”

“So, where are we?” Greg asked, looking at him.

“The question of trust matters greatly to me, as it does to you,” Mycroft said evenly. “But I don’t expect our positions have changed since I was last home.”

“Mine hasn’t,” Greg said. “Look, can I make this clear? Fine, that you and Sherlock had to keep his death a secret. But you and me have been together for a year. And you never said a word. I think that’s what hurts. That after all this time, you didn’t trust me. And I get why you did it. I’ve been thinking a lot these few weeks, and I don’t even blame you that much. But it’s that question, isn’t it? What else would you keep from me?”

Mycroft sighed and nodded. “I know.”

Greg bit his lip. “Think it over, yeah? Just over the next few days, think it over. Because I understand your reasons. But if it affects us directly… If a secret is going to hurt either of us, then I don’t think I should be kept in the dark. I’ve done that, Mycroft. I’ve done two marriages where my wife cheated on me and we kept secrets from each other. I never told Jane about my birth parents. I’ve tried to be different with you. I’ve been nothing but open with you, and it’s not easy for me. So, can you just. Can you just think about it? Please.”

Mycroft nodded and squeezed his hand. “Of course.”

“I remember you said to me once than you thought you were going to be in this relationship like a kid learning to walk. And I think you’ve walked just fine. But this is a really big deal for both of us if we’re going to stay together. And I know this secret killed you just as much as it killed me.”

Mycroft nodded. “Every day.”

Greg nodded, carrying on. “The thing is, I don’t want to be anywhere else. I’ve never had anything this good before.”

They sat on the floor in silence, watching the kittens run around them and play with the wrapping paper.

“They’re perfect,” Mycroft said after a while, watching them with a smile. “Sherlock always loved his dog, Redbeard, but I preferred cats.”

“I’m a dog person, but they take too much work. These two can look after each other.” Greg looked at him and smiled, resting against Mycroft’s side. “We’re going to be okay, aren’t we?”

Mycroft nodded. “We will be.” Mycroft turned to watch him for a moment before they leaned against each other. Greg nuzzled his neck, holding him tight.

“I’m done with today,” Greg murmured. “I’m exhausted.

Mycroft nodded, pulling back to kiss him. “As am I. What do you do with the kittens?”

“There’s a bed in the bedroom for them. But if you want them to stay out here, I’m sure they’ll be fine.”

“It’s fine,” Mycroft said, bending down to pick Scully up. “Is Mulder the shy one?” he asked.

Greg nodded. “Yeah, she seems to be.” He knelt down and gestured for Mulder to come closer. “Come on, cat,” he said. He eventually managed to scoop her up and carry her to the bedroom.

He and Mycroft put the kittens into their bed. Greg frowned as he looked at his and Mycroft's bed and picked up a furry hat from on top of the covers. “What’s this?” this he asked.

“A hat.”

Greg laughed. “I know that. But where did it come from? Did you wear this?”

“Yes, when I picked up Sherlock.”

Greg grinned. “Put it on.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “It’s only a hat.”

“I’ve never seen you in a hat. Come on. Please.”

Mycroft sighed and took it from him before putting it on. Greg took a seat on the edge of the bed and grinned up at him. “Wow. Never thought I’d see that.”

Mycroft tutted a little and took the hat off, putting it down onto Greg’s head. Greg grinned and took hold of his hands. Mycroft’s face softened as he looked at him.

“You look tired,” Greg said as he watched him. “Bed?”

“Yes,” Mycroft agreed, letting go of Greg’s hands and starting to undress. Greg pulled his own clothes off too, until he was sat under the covers with only the hat still on his head.

Mycroft turned to face him and laughed. Greg grinned, beginning to laugh too. Mycroft was still chuckling as he slid under the covers with him, taking the hat off Greg’s head and patting his hair down.

They smiled at each other until jointly moving in for a kiss, lips moulding together.

“Greg,” Mycroft whispered, pulling him closer.

“Mmm.” He heard Mycroft let out a soft sigh. Greg smiled and pulled back a little, rubbing their noses together. “You alright?” Greg asked, studying him.

“Yes. Thank you.”

They kissed again until Mycroft was pushing Greg down onto the bed to show him just how much he had missed him.

 

* * *

 

“Donovan!” Greg called out across the office. She frowned at him, looking up from one of the other PC’s computers.

“What now?” she asked. “I’m really busy this morning. I haven’t got time for anything not important.”

“Got to tell you something,” Greg said, looking at his watch. “I reckon I have five minutes before you get the shock of your life. Got a sec?”

She sighed and nodded, beginning to follow him towards his office.

“Take a seat,” Greg said as they got there.

She raised her eyebrows at him, but did as he asked. “Go on then,” she said. “Budgets or a really awful case I don’t want to take?”

“Neither,” Greg said. He bit his lip. “Got a bit of news for you, Sally. And it’s not easy to take.”

“Go on.”

“Sherlock’s not dead.”

She tilted her head, frowning. “Greg. Did you hit your head in the shower this morning?”

“I’m serious,” Greg told her. “I saw him last night. I’ve known about it for a month. Sherlock’s alive. He faked his death. Don’t ask me how, I haven’t even asked that.” He frowned. He had no idea why he hadn’t asked that.

“Sherlock’s alive,” Sally repeated before rolling her eyes. “Of course he’s alive. Bloody. Stupid. Shitting. Uch.”

Greg began to smile. “You’re taking this remarkably well.”

Sally shrugged. “It’s Sherlock Holmes, isn’t it? Nothing surprises me anymore. Are you alight?”

“Getting there,” Greg said. “It’s been a rough few weeks, but we’re sorting it.”

“So. He’s really alive.”

“Yep.”

“Hm.” She frowned for a minute. “You told him Sam’s band name yet?”

“No.”

Sally smiled. “Oh, he’s gonna hate it. Can I tell him?”

Greg laughed. “Whatever you want.”

“You told Anderson yet?” Sally asked, suddenly serious.

Greg bit his lip and shook his head. “No. Don’t know what to do on that score. He got it right. But… He’s still not got his job, has he?”

“No. No, but he didn’t help himself.”

Greg nodded. “If you need to talk about any of this, just shout, yeah?”

“I’m fine, Greg. I got through all this.”

“You did better than me then.”

“You fell in love with his brother,” Sally said. “You can’t go home and forget about it. It’s always there, isn’t it, every time you walk through the door.”

Greg frowned. “I didn’t think of it like that.”

Sally shrugged. “If anyone’s going to make this easier for you, it’s Mycroft. He’s a nice guy. A bit reserved, but he’s… he’s kind. And he clearly loves you a lot.” Greg nodded and Sally frowned a little. “Don’t be hard on him,” she said.

“Who?” Greg asked.

Sally stood up and shrugged. “Mycroft. Sherlock. I don’t know. Whoever it is you’re blaming.”

Greg watched her thoughtfully as she went.

 

* * *

 

It took Sherlock longer to arrive at the Yard than Greg expected. But he did so with whispers following him down the corridors, one or two not so subtle officers also making comments to his face.

Sherlock, for his part, stayed quiet, Molly following behind.

Sally stepped into the corridor and the two of them eyed each other for a few moments. “So, you’re back then,” she said, breaking the silence.

“Sally,” Sherlock murmured. “Couldn’t have died so convincingly without you.”

Greg opened his mouth to tell Sherlock off for being such a dick, but then he saw a genuine smile there. Sally eyed him with some scepticism for a moment before nodding.

“Sam’s called his band The Consulting Detectives,” she said.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Brockhurst,” he muttered.

“Oh great,” Greg said bitterly. “So you remember his name.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Lestrade. Come on.” They began to walk past Sally. “I mean it,” Sherlock said, turning back to look at her.

She nodded. “It’s good you’re not dead,” she said.

They both smiled respectfully before continuing in separate directions.

 

* * *

 

Greg drove them to a basement in North London. He tore down some police tape and led Sherlock and Molly inside.

“This one’s got us all baffled,” he said.

“Mmm. I don’t doubt it,” Sherlock replied.

Greg couldn’t help but smile. He’d missed Sherlock’s barbed comments. God, it was like a fantastic dream. He led them inside, to where a skeleton dressed in a suit was sat in a chair. Sherlock began to inspect the scene immediately, Molly watching.

Greg watched in amazement, half grinning at the unusual crime scene, until he heard Sherlock whisper “shut up, John.”

“What?” Molly asked.

“Hmm? Nothing,” Sherlock said, continuing to inspect the skeleton. But Greg had heard it. His amused expression didn’t change, but he filed that away. And he knew then. Something wasn’t quite right.

Greg leaned closer to Sherlock, glancing at Molly. “This gonna be your new arrangement, is it?” he asked.

“Just giving it a go.”

“Right. So, John?”

“Not really in the picture any more,” Sherlock replied. Yeah, that was worrying. Greg wasn’t surprised, but he wondered just how much Sherlock had expected the world to have returned to normal…

“Male, forty to fifty,” Molly said, looking at the skeleton too. She glanced at Sherlock. “Ooh, sorry, did you want to be…”

“Er, no, please. Be my guest,” Sherlock said. He turned back to the work at hand. “Shut up!” he hissed suddenly.

Molly exchanged a look with Greg. Greg ignored it for now. Sherlock was amazing him with deductions and revelations. Like he’d never been away. 

“So the whole thing was a fake,” Greg said, frowning. Jack The Ripper would have been a great mystery. A skeleton from a museum, not so much.

“Yes,” Sherlock said, turning to leave the room.

“Looked so promising,” Greg muttered.

“Facile.”

“Why would someone go to all that trouble?” Molly asked.

“Why indeed, John?” Sherlock called back.

Molly glanced at Greg. He bit his lip.

“What should we…” she started.

Greg shook his head. “No. Just go, alright? Just keep working with him.”

Molly nodded and hurried out after him. Greg stood with his hands in his pockets, just wondering. Was Sherlock seeing John or just hearing him? Either way, it was a definite concern and not one he was willing to let lie for long.

Greg got home and fed the kittens before settling down with his book. He frowned when his phone went off, with Mycroft’s name on the screen. “Lestrade,” he answered, his usual reply even if it was his partner.

“Greg. Could you come to the Coeur de Lion offices, I need to talk to you about something.”

“Can we talk about it when you get home?” Greg asked.

“I fear I’ll be home late. You wouldn’t believe how much work has built up since I was last in London. There's a likely terrorist attack in London.”

“Alright,” Greg said with a sigh, checking his watch. It was concerning how little the prospect of a terrorist attack phased him now. He'd definitely lived with Mycroft for too long. “Alright, I’m on my way now. See you in about 20 minutes?”

“Half an hour more likely, judging by the traffic.”

Greg smiled to himself. “Alright. See you in half an hour.” He hung up and grabbed his coat. It was the first time he’d been to the Coeur de Lion offices in a while, but nothing had changed. Although if anything, Mycroft seemed to have even more staff than before.

Greg peered around his door office. “Hey,” he said, smiling at him as he stepped inside, closing it behind him. “Everything alright?”

“Busy,” Mycroft said, closing his laptop down. “How was your day?”

“Not too bad. Took Sherlock out on a case but it wasn’t any good.” He frowned for a moment.

“What?” Mycroft asked.

“I dunno,” Greg said. “Sherlock’s…” He shook his head. “I dunno.”

“Mm,” Mycroft said. “I saw him this morning.”

“And?”

“We played Operation. And Deductions.”

Greg laughed. “Who won?”

“Sherlock won Operation. I believe I won Deductions.” Mycroft frowned. “Especially since he deduced I was lonely and failed to notice I had acquired a cat.”

Greg shook his head. “He didn’t question me either.”

They both held each other’s worried gaze for a moment before Greg took a seat.

“Not good,” Greg said, biting his lip.

“No,” Mycroft agreed, leaning on the desk beside him.

“Any suggestions?”

“No. He won’t talk to me. And he’ll do all he can to protect John from knowing the full extent of what happened to him.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Greg said. “But he won’t talk to me either.” He sighed. “Anyway. I’m guessing you didn’t call me here to talk about Sherlock. What’s up?”

Mycroft pushed away from the desk and walked around to the other side. He opened a drawer and put a sheet of paper on the desk in front of Greg.

Greg glanced down at it, reading ‘national security’ and ‘official secrets act’. He’d signed one of these before, years ago.

“What the hell is this?” Greg asked.

“The Official Secrets Act. If you signed it, you would have a clearance level the equivalent of Anthea’s. It protects me from going to prison if you divulge sensitive information I told you about, since you are now responsible for keeping it secret.”

Mycroft leaned against his desk and picked the paper back up. He ripped it in two. And then ripped it again.

Greg stared at him. “What the hell are you doing?”

Mycroft held his eyes. “Ask anything you want.”

“Ask anything?” Greg repeated, watching him with interest.

“About anything. Terrorism, politics, war. Anything you’re interested in, I will share with you.”

Greg bit his lip. “You’re serious.”

“Very much.”

“But I didn’t sign that form.”

“No, Greg,” Mycroft said. “You didn’t.”

They stared at each other for a few moments. Mycroft threw the pieces of paper into the bin.

“You trust me,” Greg murmured.

“Implicitly.”

“I can ask you anything?” Greg asked.

“Everything you want.”

“Is this a one-time offer?” Greg asked. “Or is this a forever offer?”

“The offer will always stand.”

Greg smiled at him, beginning to nod. “Do you want me to sign that form?”

Mycroft opened his mouth and then closed it again.

Greg grinned. “C’mon. I know you do. Put it in front of me. I’ll do it.”

Mycroft smiled and retrieved more papers from his drawer. “I would have told you even if you hadn’t signed it,” Mycroft said.

“I know,” Greg replied, looking up at him. “And that’s why I’m offering to sign this one.” He picked up one of Mycroft’s pens and went through the sheets, signing his name on each of them. He handed them over to Mycroft.

Mycroft smiled gratefully and filed them away. Greg stood up and walked around to his side of the desk so he could give him a kiss. “You got to work?” he asked.

Mycroft nodded and wrapped his arms around Greg’s neck. “I’m afraid so.”

“I’ll put some dinner in the microwave for you, alright? Don’t worry if you don’t want it when you get in.”

They exchanged a soft kiss, unwilling to part. “I don’t know what to do about Sherlock,” Mycroft admitted.

“I’ll sort it,” Greg said. “I’ll think of something. We always sort it, you and me.”

“He didn’t ask about the kittens,” Mycroft said, frowning. “I was sure he would. Either he didn’t notice it or he didn’t want the answer.”

Greg nodded and kissed his cheek. “I’m going to Baker Street tomorrow for Sherlock’s back from the dead party. I’ll see if I can talk to him then.”

“Ah.”

Greg frowned. “Ah what?”

“My parents wondered if you’d like to see Les Miserables.”

Greg shook his head. “No can do. Already invited to Sherlock’s zombie party.”

Mycroft looked pleadingly at him. “Greg. It’s awful.”

“And something you must endure alone.” Greg grinned and gave him a soft kiss. “Wake me up when you get home?”

“Of course. Are you sure you can’t be tempted by the theatre?”

Greg laughed. “I have to deal with Sherlock. You can deal with Les Mis. I’m not sure which of us has it worse. See you later.”

As he left the office, he found himself smiling. He really knew they were going to be okay.

 

* * *

 

Greg remembered Christmas in 2010. At 221b, with Sherlock, John, Molly, Mrs Hudson. It was one of his favourite memories of Sherlock, one he used to return to when he wanted to remember him. That was back when he was dead. But he wasn’t dead now.

Being back at 221b felt so similar to that Christmas it could almost be then again now - but for the nervous tension in the air. Like people were still looking at Sherlock for brief seconds as though stunned to see him at all. Like no one was quite sure how to act.

“You will be there, Sherlock?” Mary asked.

“Weddings – not really my thing,” Sherlock replied, but he was smiling. Greg smiled to himself. Perhaps it was easier for John, having Mary there to support him through it all. And Sherlock seemed to have taken to her. That was a good start.

Molly walked in then. “Hello, everyone. This is Tom. Tom, this is everyone.”

“Hi,” Tom the tall man beside her, said.

“Hi,” Greg said, staring at him. Christ, did Molly go to a Sherlock lookalike convention to pick him up? John was obviously thinking the same thing, because it took him a few moments to shake Tom’s hand.

Greg got up to get some glasses of champagne, laughing to himself when he saw Sherlock’s reaction to Molly’s fiance. Sherlock and John left the room to face the waiting press. Greg had to admit, he was dreading the front pages tomorrow.

“So, um, is it serious, you two?” Greg asked Molly, glancing at Tom.

“Yeah," she said. "I’ve moved on.”

Greg glanced over at Tom who was in deep conversation with Mary and Mrs Hudson. Greg nodded slowly. “Good,” he said. “Good to hear it.”

Molly beamed at him. “How have you been?” she asked.

“Good thanks. You?”

She nodded eagerly. “I’m just very glad to have Sherlock back and everything be back to normal. I’m sorry I ignored you for all that time he was dead, well, not dead but presumed dead, but I’m sure you must understand how hard it was.”

Greg nodded. “I get it. It’s fine.”

“Are you seeing anyone?” Molly asked.

“Yeah,” Greg said with a smile. “Yeah, Sherlock’s brother.”

Molly let out a giggle before covering her mouth as she looked at Greg’s expression. “You aren’t kidding.”

Greg laughed. “Nope.”

“What’s that?” Mary asked, looking up, her eyes flicking between them.

“Greg’s going out with Mycroft Holmes,” Molly said with a grin.

Mary raised her eyebrows before nodding with an amused smile. Mrs Hudson stared at Greg. “Mycroft, dear?” she asked.

Greg smiled and nodded. “Yep.”

Mrs Hudson continued to look bewildered. “But… Mycroft?” She giggled before pulling an incredulous expression. “Really?”

“Yes, Mrs Hudson, really.”

“But how long on earth has that been going on for?”

“It’ll be two years in January,” Greg told her.

She raised her eyebrows. “Two years? Oh. Well,” she said. “I mean, you could even get a civil partnership if you wanted to. Next door, they’re married. Or civil partnershipped. What’s the correct term?”

Greg held his hands up. “Woah. Let’s not get carried away. John and Mary are getting married. I’ll leave all that to them.”

Mary beamed at him. “Good, you’re not stealing my thunder,” she said playfully.

Greg laughed and sipped his champagne. He looked up as John and Sherlock walked back into the room. Sherlock rolled his eyes, taking the deerstalker hat off and tossing it onto the sofa. John took a seat beside Mary and the conversations continued.

The chatter was warm and friendly. Natural.

Greg turned his head to watch Sherlock. He was leaning heavily on the back of a chair, a wince on his face. No one else had noticed, judging by the conversations continuing in the room. John turned his head then to look at Sherlock, and Sherlock was stood upright in an instant, a warm smile on his face.

Sherlock looked over and caught Greg’s eye. He seemed to be silently imploring him not to do something, but what, Greg wasn’t sure. He gave Sherlock a curt nod, which Sherlock returned.

As the conversations turned to wedding plans and what Sherlock would be doing next, Greg let it go for the time being.

Mycroft was already on the sofa with a book when Greg returned home. Mulder was curled up on his lap while Scully occupied herself with his shoelaces. Greg smiled at the sight of them. God, if everyone knew what a softy Mycroft was, the world would probably fall apart.

He took a seat beside him on the sofa, exchanging a soft kiss. “It’s dreadful,” Mycroft said. “I can’t get Can You Hear The People Sing? out of my head.”

Greg laughed, fussing over Mulder. “Not good then?”

“Awful. How was Baker Street?”

“Yeah, it was fine. Like old times.” Greg scooped Scully up from the floor, letting her sit on his shoulder.

“And Sherlock?”

“Pretending everything’s fine. Protecting John, I guess.”

“And how is John?”

“Like he’s got a new lease of life.”

Mycroft smiled a bit, dangling his tie in front of Mulder’s nose and watching as she tried to swipe at it with her paw, too tired to be enthusiastic with it.

Greg leaned into his side, picking up the TV remote and flicking through the channels. “God, I’m done with this week,” he said.

“See it as a fresh start,” Mycroft said, continuing to fuss over the kitten in his lap.

Greg glanced at him with a smile. “Yeah. Yeah, I am.”

Mycroft turned to him and smiled too. Greg pulled him in for another kiss, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. Mycroft leaned into him.

“Did you have anything you’d like to do this weekend?” Mycroft asked.

“Didn’t think about it to be honest. The last few days have been a whirlwind.”

“I’m relieved to be out of Serbia,” Mycroft said.

“Serbia? You were in Serbia?”

“Mm. Sherlock got himself captured and I had to worm my way into their ranks.”

Greg bit his lip. “Field work?”

“Yes.”

Greg squeezed his shoulder. “You were safe, yeah?”

“I was undetected the whole time.”

“Not the same thing,” Greg told him, nuzzling his neck to show him he wasn’t angry.

“I was fine.”

“Everything went to plan?”

“Mostly.”

Greg nodded, taking hold of his hand and kissing his hair. “I’m glad you’re home,” he said.

Mycroft nodded, squeezing Greg’s hand. “I’m glad you’re home too,” he said. They stayed like that in silence, watching their new kittens chase each other around the sofa. 


	65. Silent, Broken, Bruised and Cloaked

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please excuse me for the lack of replies, thank you to all those who commented, I just wanted to post this before I went to bed! Also, sorry this is shorter. It just... is.

_November, 2013_

It had only been a day since Greg had last seen Sherlock, but he couldn’t resist popping over there, just to confirm to himself that it was real. He let himself in, amazed his key still fit. Heading up those stairs felt like he was reliving his life all over again.

He opened the door to Sherlock’s flat without knocking and frowned when he saw him.

He was stood in his trousers, his back to the door, trying to pull at a dressing on his back. Other dressings lay by his feet, fresh wounds were littering the stretch of his back.

Sherlock noticeably tensed when he heard Greg behind him, and he turned around frowning. “What are you doing?” he asked stiffly.

“Came to see how you were getting on. Need a hand with that?”

Sherlock stared at him. “No.”

“You sure?” Greg asked. “Looks like you were having some trouble there.”

Sherlock pressed his lips together. “I broke my collarbone. I’m having some difficulty twisting my arm round.”

Greg nodded. “Let me.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Did Mycroft send you here?”

“No.”

Sherlock studied him. “How long for you both now?” he asked.

“Two years next month.”

“What took him so long?” Sherlock asked. “Seven months after I died. I would have thought he’d have wasted no time at all.”

Greg shrugged. “That’s him, I guess.”

Sherlock nodded and turned around so his back was to Greg. “Fine,” he said. “Check for infection too.”

Greg nodded and wandered over. He winced when he saw the wounds up close. “Whip?” he asked.

He saw Sherlock’s body stiffen. “Yes,” he said. “In Serbia.”

Greg bit his lip and gently peeled the dressing off. This was something he never dreamed of doing again. Both Holmes men with their matching scars. Once again, he found he was glad those scars were on Mycroft’s back. That they were on Sherlock’s back too. That they didn’t need to see them every day and live with the physical reminder of all that pain.

Greg studied the wounds closely. “Doesn’t look infected,” he said. “Could probably use some air, to be honest, this middle one.”

“I changed the dressings on the others, but I couldn’t reach this one,” Sherlock explained.

“What happened to your collarbone?” Greg asked him.

“Fell off a motorbike. It didn’t heal properly.”

Greg grabbed the fresh dressings from the table and began to re-cover the cuts.

“You’ve done this before,” Sherlock remarked.

“Mmm,” Greg replied as he covered the last cut. He took a step back and nodded. “All done.”

Sherlock grabbed his shirt and quickly put it on before turning to face him. “Why are you here?” he asked again.

“Came to see how you were doing.”

“I’m fine.”

“Are you?” Greg asked.

Sherlock shrugged and took a seat on the sofa. “Of course I am. Don’t be absurd.”

“Sherlock. It’s just me. We’ve known each other for nine years. And as much as you’d like to pretend you don’t feel anything, I know it’s not true. And now you’ve got scars on your back and I know well enough that the pain doesn’t stop just because it doesn’t hurt anymore. You want to talk?”

“No.”

Greg shrugged. “Alright.” He took a seat on one of the chairs.

Sherlock glanced at his arm, and the nicotine patch now on it. “You stopped smoking again,” he remarked. 

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“You came back,” Greg said. “We’ve got a deal, you and me.”

“Surely the deal ended when I died,” Sherlock said.

“And then you didn’t die.”

They held each other’s eyes for a moment. Sherlock looked away first, silence falling between them. Greg glanced down at his knees and then back at Sherlock. He was just about to stand up and say he’d come round another day, when Sherlock spoke.

“I flinch every time someone walks behind me. Particularly when they come from over my right shoulder. I don’t know why the right one. I haven’t had a violent reaction and hit anyone yet, but I’m expecting one.”

Greg frowned. “Are you talking to anyone about all this?” he asked.

“No. I haven’t told anyone.”

“What happened out there?” Greg asked.

Sherlock shook his head. “I did it so I could come home.”

“What was the cost?” Greg asked.

Sherlock chewed his lip. “John, perhaps. A few years of being clean from drugs, wasted. How did you get rid of your nightmares?”

“Never did completely,” Greg said. “Talked it out. Found someone who I was able to chat to.”

“Mycroft.”

Greg nodded. “Yeah.”

Sherlock walked to the kitchen. Greg frowned and watched him, biting his lip when he returned with a bottle of whiskey and two glasses.

“Do you ever wonder about all of us?” Sherlock asked.

“All of who?”

“Me. You. John. Mycroft. Molly. Mrs Hudson. There’s a strange similarity in all of our…” Sherlock frowned as he poured the drinks out.

“Our what?” Greg asked, taking a glass and settling back in the chair. He’d never seen Sherlock drink alcohol, but he let it go.

Sherlock sat back in his chair, sipping his drink. “Did anyone win?” he asked.

“No,” Greg said. “No, nobody won.”

“Then Moriarty won,” Sherlock said, frowning.

“No, he didn’t.”

“Yes, he did. Look at us all.”

Greg hesitated for a moment. “You know why we lost, Sherlock?”

Sherlock shook his head. “No.”

“Because you did this on your own.”

“I had to.”

“No,” Greg said. “No, you didn’t.”

They stared at each other before they turned their attention to their drinks. “I apologise,” Sherlock said. “For what happened when you lost your job.”

“It’s fine. It feels so long ago now, it’s like it didn’t happen.”

“Is that what happens?” Sherlock asked. “When you undergo a traumatic event, you can forget it?”

Greg sighed. “I wish I could say that was true.”

Sherlock nodded and they fell into silence for several minutes.

“Sherlock?” Greg said after a while. “Why me?”

“What do you mean?”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Why not you?”

Greg nodded. “Alright. Yeah.” He sipped his whiskey.

“John hit me,” Sherlock said suddenly. “Mrs Hudson screamed. Mycroft watched me being tortured. You were the only person who seemed genuinely pleased to see me. I don’t blame them for their reactions, they were all perfectly rational.”

“But?”

“I preferred your irrational response. Even if it was laced with sentiment.”

“Yeah, well. I love you in my way, you daft sod,” Greg said with a smile. “Glad to see you back, wasn’t I?”

“You were the only one. Even Molly took several weeks to adjust and she knew I was alive all along. Lestrade.”

“Yeah?”

“They can never know. Not even Mycroft.”

Greg sighed. “You have my word, Sherlock. But I won’t lie to Mycroft about anything, you know this. If he asks I’ll tell him.”

“Of course. Lestrade?”

“Yeah?”

“John’s not coming back, is he?”

Greg sighed. “No, mate. No, I don’t think he is.”

“I thought it would be just the same.”

“Bit of a shock was it?”

“Yes, actually.” Sherlock frowned. “Lestrade.”

“Yeah?”

“Same time next week?”

“What?” Greg asked.

“I refuse to talk to a therapist, John wouldn’t be able to listen without a pathetically sympathetic expression. I can hardly talk to Molly, she’d probably cry. And there is no way I will ever speak to Mycroft.”

“Are you scheduling me in to be your therapist?”

“No. Just a friend.”

There was so much Greg wanted to do. Throw his arms out and give him a big hug. Grin and call him a soppy git. Get his camera out, and make him say it again so he could play it over and over. But instead he just nodded. “Same time next week,” he agreed.

They picked up their drinks and began to talk about cases.

Greg was tipsy by the time he left, and he had to ask Mycroft to send a car round to pick him up.

Greg grinned as he stepped into the flat and and made his way to the bedroom. Mycroft was just taking off his shirt, deft fingers unfastening each button. Greg stared at him for a moment, captivated, before stepping closer, immediately latching his lips onto Mycroft’s neck.

“You’re drunk,” Mycroft murmured, tilting his head to grant more access all the same.

Greg grinned, pushing Mycroft’s shirt off his shoulders. “And you’re gorgeous,” he said, lifting his head to kiss him. Mycroft laughed and tangled his fingers in Greg’s hair, devouring his mouth and pulling them towards the bed.

They stumbled onto it, tugging at clothing as they kissed. Greg’s fingers brushed over Mycroft’s nipples, making him tremble. He trailed kisses down his his chest and his stomach until he was low enough to brush his cheek against his erection through his trousers.

He pulled them down, kissing lower and lower as he went, biting his thighs. “On your front, mister,” he said, looking up at him with a grin.

Mycroft offered him a playful roll of the eyes as he followed the request, parting his legs a little as he lay there. Greg pulled his boxers down, kissing the small of his back and the small dimples either side of his spine.

He began to lick a trail down the middle of his back, towards the cleft of Mycroft’s arse, hinting but not following through. Mycroft squirmed beneath him, curling his fingers in the sheets and then letting go. He didn’t push up towards Greg’s mouth, but Greg could see his resolve floundering.

He licked a line between Mycroft’s cheeks, flicking his tongue out to tease. He gripped Mycroft’s arse, squeezing and then biting and kissing, before turning his attention back to his hole.

He swapped between speedy flicks and hard presses, and didn’t let up until Mycroft began to move, sweet little needy breaths spilling from his mouth. “Oh, you’re perfect,” Greg groaned, reaching for the drawer.

He pushed two lubricated fingers inside, searching for Mycroft’s prostate and then gasping with him as he found it, finding a slow rhythm with the two digits.

He continued to move his fingers while Mycroft bucked his hips. Greg lived for his every sound until Mycroft was all but begging.

As Greg pushed home, they kissed over Mycroft’s shoulder, wet and needy and desperate. Greg didn’t hold back and Mycroft encouraged him, reaching back to grip Greg’s shoulder and urge him on.

Greg bit the side of his neck, barely clinging onto his own self-control. Mycroft lifted his hips and Greg took the opportunity to wrap a hand around his cock. They let go together, Grep emptying himself inside his partner with a moan.

They collapsed onto the bed, Mycroft letting out a soft hum of approval. Greg nuzzled his neck, smiling. He pulled out slowly, offering Mycroft tissues to clean himself with.

Mycroft lay on his front and Greg sat down beside him, tenderly kissing the back of his neck. He stroked his hand lower, tracing his fingers over Mycroft’s scars. He lifted himself up so he could kiss them, his lips lingering over the marks.

“You saw Sherlock’s back,” Mycroft murmured from beneath him.

“Yeah,” Greg admitted, leaning down to kiss the back of Mycroft’s neck. “Sorry.”

“There’s no need to apologise.”

“Can I… can I ask what happened?” Greg asked.

Mycroft nodded. “In a moment.” They exchanged a kiss and Mycroft got up to use the bathroom. He returned in a dressing gown and took a seat on the bed. Greg used the bathroom next, and returned to slide naked under the covers. They each lay on their sides looking at each other, Mycroft above the duvet.

“Sherlock was captured, escaped and was captured again,” Mycroft said after a minute. “It took a while to find him. When I went to New Delhi, it was to negotiate international surveillance agreements. Although it was something which would benefit our allies all over the world as well as ourselves, primarily my motivation was to be able to monitor Sherlock’s movements.”

Greg nodded, watching him.

“Of course, our plans did not have wide-spread support. We were accused of trying to spy on other nations. Which in a sense, I suppose we were, though it was only to protect Sherlock. Explaining this was… difficult, to say the least. While some countries in the Middle East were willing to go along with it so that they received extra bonuses from being allied with us, many European countries refused. Understandably. Serbia was one of those, and it made it more difficult to find Sherlock.”

Mycroft pressed his lips together, reaching for the glass of water on the side and taking a sip before continuing. “Eventually, when we did, he had been captured for a second time. Careless, really,” Mycroft murmured. “Though he was being tracked by someone far, far more adept at avoiding capture than anyone else.”

“Who?” Greg asked.

“Does the name Sebastian Moran remind you of anything?”

“Yeah,” Greg said. Like he could forget it. “Sniper, right? Quite happy to see me take a nosedive in the Thames.”

“He’s been watching us,” Mycroft admitted. “And we have been watching him. But Moran was also tracking Sherlock. We’re lucky we got Sherlock out when we did. But he was being tortured. I let it happen.”

Greg frowned. “What?”

Mycroft sighed and rolled over onto his back, staring blankly at the ceiling. Greg lay down beside him, watching him. “I smuggled myself into their ranks,” Mycroft said, his voice distant. “I had just managed to secure my position. But they were torturing him. I had to let it happen.” Mycroft frowned. “I wonder what I should have done differently.”

“You can’t do that,” Greg said. “You do what you did at the time and then that’s it. There’s no do-over.”

Mycroft gazed across at him. “I wondered what Sherlock had to get him through it all, to give him a reason to live, if I hadn’t been there to intervene. You saved my life.”

Greg frowned. “You what? When did I do that?”

Mycroft closed his eyes, shaking his head. “I was in Saudi Arabia.” He curled his fingers in the covers, so hard that his knuckles turned white. “In the middle of the night, I was drugged by some of those who were supposed to be protecting us. I woke up on my knees when ice cold water was thrown in my face.”

“Mycroft,” Greg murmured, taking hold of his hand and rubbing his thumb against his knuckles. “Look, you don’t need to tell me this.”

“I know. When you’re kicked and beaten, it hurts but you know those bruises will fade. I was never going to disclose anything. I never said a word. Eventually I was tied to a column. The whip came down the first time and it hurt like nothing I can put into words. It came down along my lower back. Again, and again. Still, I said nothing. It was the second time I’d been tortured this way. And I knew it would end eventually. They loosened the ropes and I fell to my knees. One of them hit me so hard round my face that everything went black for a moment. I thought it would be easy to go then. Sherlock had you to protect him now and he would be safe and cared for.”

Greg stared at him, his heart aching. He could see it all in his head, and it made him want to scoop Mycroft in his arms and chase those memories away. Instead, he stayed quiet, letting Mycroft let go of the demons he’d held onto for years.

“But then in my mind, I saw you,” Mycroft said. “You said ‘Hang on a second, I’m not ready for you to go yet. Neither is Sherlock. You’ve got to come back here’. I told you I couldn’t. I told you I couldn’t let myself be so vulnerable and return to you. And then you told me I had never been so vulnerable as I was at that moment, on the floor. And I knew then I had to fight. I surprised my attacker with a blow. Then there was the droning of the helicopter’s blades, the bright lights and the shouting. 21 shots were fired in total, and they lay dead on the floor. The medic might as well have carried me to the car, and all the while I was calling for you. He told me to just think of Greg. Of course, he had no idea who you were. But I thought of you. I always think of you.”

Greg took hold of his hands.

“And a wonderful thing happened when I returned to London,” Mycroft said, turning his head to look at him. “You held my hand and you dressed my wounds. And then I fell asleep.” Mycroft’s eyes flicked up to Greg’s. “Only, I wasn’t asleep. I know you kissed my forehead.”

“Mycroft,” Greg whispered. He could recall it vividly too. He’d been with Jane at the time, and he told himself Mycroft was just a friend. But seeing him so vulnerable… Christ, how hadn’t he known then just how much he loved him?

“I wanted to reach for you,” Mycroft said quietly. “I wanted to tell you… it wasn’t over. I wanted to tell you it was never over. When I realised what I wanted to say, I heard the front door close and I knew you were gone and you would get married to Jane. I thought that you had already given me the greatest gifts you could give. You saved my life. And you gave me a chance to protect yours.”

Greg swallowed, squeezing his hands. “It wasn’t over,” he said hoarsely. “It’s never been over.”

“I have betrayed you and Sherlock in the very worst ways. I don’t believe he’ll ever forgive that. And I certainly don’t believe he’ll ever be quite the same. The cuts you saw Greg… they don’t even come close to what I’m sure is under the surface.”

Greg nodded. “And who knows what to do?” he asked. “Because Sherlock sure as hell isn’t going to get help.”

“We just have to trust that he'll try to help himself. I fear your cases might no longer cut it.”

They gazed at each other, before curling into each other’s arms.

 

* * *

 

_December, 2013_

For the next few weeks, Greg and Sherlock met regularly. They spent much of their time together pouring over crime scenes and some of the cases Greg hadn’t been able to solve while Sherlock had been off gallivanting around the world. Occasionally, after they’d fallen into silence while studying their work, Sherlock would offer something about his time away.

“I was glad you started smoking,” he said one afternoon.

Greg looked up from his report. “Why?” he asked.

“Because I had trouble with drugs. Very early on. Mycroft had to come and ease me through withdrawal. It was awful. You’re much better at it than he is.”

Greg snorted. “I believe that.”

They went back to their work.

It was only their third week of meeting when Greg found Sherlock lying on his back on the sofa. He had a needle in his hands.

“You used that?” Greg asked, taking a slow step towards him.

“No. Not yet.”

“What’s stopping you?”

“Not sure.”

“Can I take that off you?” Greg asked.

“Yeah.”

Greg carefully took the needle from him, wrapping it up in tissue and putting it by the door so he would remember to take it with him. “What happened?” he asked.

“The skull makes for pitiful conversation.”

“You need John yeah?”

“He’s working.”

“Look, I know I’m no replacement but-”

Sherlock immediately began to discuss a crime with him. For now, that conversation was over.

 

* * *

 

On Christmas Eve, Greg had to practically drag Mycroft out of their flat and into the waiting car. “I don’t see why I have to go,” Mycroft protested. “I wasn’t invited.”

“Because I think you should be there,” Greg told him. “And because it would be nice.”

Mycroft continued to protest the whole way, until they finally arrived in Baker Street, and he replaced his grumbles with an exasperated roll of his eyes. Greg grinned and handed him a bag. “You can be Santa Claus and carry the presents.”

“How wonderful,” Mycroft muttered sarcastically. “I thought you hated Christmas," he added, as though reminding Greg of that fact would make him want to leave.

“I do,” Greg said with a smile. “But it’s Sherlock’s first Christmas back, so it’s going to be a special one. Which means you’re coming. C’mon.” The note on the door said to just come up, so Greg led the way in. He opened the door to 221b and smiled around as they entered.

Sherlock was there, on his laptop while Molly was engaged in conversation with Mrs Hudson. Sherlock raised his eyebrows when he caught sight of his brother. “Why?” was all he asked.

“Believe me,” Mycroft said, putting the presents down on the kitchen table. “There are plenty of other things I was planning to do this evening.”

Greg wandered through, giving Molly and Mrs Hudson a kiss on the cheek each before walking into the kitchen to pick up a beer and pour Mycroft a glass of whiskey. Mycroft took John’s old seat as he looked around the flat.

“Where’s Tom?” Greg asked Molly, topping up her glass of wine.

“Oh, he’s having Christmas with his parents. I’m joining them tomorrow.”

“First Christmas with the parents?” Greg asked.

Molly smiled and nodded. “They’re really nice,” she said. “We’re going to have goose for dinner.”

Greg smiled and took a seat on the sofa. He looked up as John and Mary walked in. “Sorry we’re late,” John said with a wide smile. “Hi, Greg.” They shook hands and Greg stood up to give Mary a kiss on the cheek. John had an amused smile on his face when he saw Mycroft had joined them. “Hi,” he said, going over and shaking his hand too.

Mycroft nodded and stood up.

“Mary,” Mary told him, holding her hand out. Mycroft hesitated just for half a second before shaking her hand too.

“Pleasure,” he murmured. “Mycroft Holmes.”

“I know who you are,” Mary said with a grin before going to greet Molly.

The festivities went without a hitch. Mycroft was quiet, observing rather than taking part. Sherlock seemed much the same. He talked to everyone, but on several occasions he wandered into his bedroom and locked himself in there for a few minutes. He always returned with something. Sweets, a book to lend Molly, one of Greg’s old cases, an experiment he was working on.

But Greg, knowing the extent Sherlock was not coping, couldn’t help but wonder if he’d put everything into his bedroom on purpose. Just so he could take himself away for a few minutes and get away from the noise. That was all well and good if that was the case. It was better that than him sniping at people.

But every one of his disappearances bothered Greg. And bothered him more when, on the final time Sherlock went into his bedroom, John caught his eye, clearly concerned too.

Greg and Mycroft left at 9.45pm. They exchanged a look across the room, a small nod each, before standing up. They hadn’t spoken to each other much, but Greg wondered if that was better. Their relationship wasn’t for public consumption, no matter how curious their friends were.

The presents stayed, unopened, on the kitchen table and they said their goodbyes before walking out together.

 

* * *

 

They spent Christmas Day together. They ate a hearty roast, prepared together. They drank, played card games and chess (or rather, Mycroft played chess and Greg just tried his best). And then they returned to work the next day. It was only when Greg got home, damp and cold, that Mycroft asked him a question about their time at Baker Street. “What is your opinion on Ms Morstan?” Mycroft asked.

Greg shrugged off his coat. “I like her. She’s friendly. She’s fine. Why?”

Mycroft shook his head. “I couldn’t… I can’t place her.”

Greg sat down beside him on the sofa. “How’d you mean?”

“When I look at her… I thought something wasn’t quite right, but I couldn’t work out why.”

“What are you saying?”

“I looked her up, Greg. Mary Morstan only existed around six years. And I can’t find anything else about her. The files… they’re all missing.”

Greg stared at him. “What are you saying?” he asked again.

“The documents have all be stolen. But there was one document left.” Mycroft handed over a print-out. It was a photograph of a poster, the words on it painted in red. _Some other time, Detective Inspector Lestrade_ , it read.

Greg slumped down in a chair staring at the words. “This. This is the poster from years ago.” He looked up at Mycroft. “When I took a nose-dive in the Thames, this was… this was the poster. Moran. Sebastian Moran. He put that there.”

“It was,” Mycroft said.

Greg shook his head. “I don’t know what the hell this means. What does this mean?”

“I don’t know,” Mycroft said. They both looked at each other, concerned expressions on both of their faces.

“Mycroft,” Greg murmured. “What the hell is going on?”

And the next words out of Mycroft’s mouth terrified him more than anything else Mycroft could have said at that moment. “I have absolutely no idea.”


	66. You Let The Devils Draw Near

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks you amazingly lovely wonderful human beings: MoonRiver, arobynsung, Mice, JustLookFrightenedAndScuttle, WhiskeySally, Jaeh, princessgolux, ladyxdarcy, KingTaran, Sandra+Nelson, Superwholockgal, ofnovember, beccab, maliciouspixie5, Iaccidentlyatemyunicorn, gngrxx, OwlinAutumn, psychicdreams, ivefoundmygoldfish (melonpanparade), Teafairy, ainraatheexplorer, Jill (because I owe you for your comments to me when I was seriously struggling at the weekend - so many thank yous), and cltc75.

_December, 2013_

A track had almost been worn into the carpet from the number of times Greg had paced over it.

“Greg, sit down,” Mycroft said from the sofa. “That isn’t going to help matters.”

“Then what is going to help?” Greg asked, turning to him. “Is this our lives now? We sit here and wait for the next threat to come along?”

“I’m not waiting, I assure you.”

“But I don’t understand what this means! Is Mary working with Moran? Did Moran steal those files? If so, why? Mycroft. I hate not knowing.”

“So do I.”

“And is this us?” Greg asked. “We’re just going to live our lives like this?”

“It’s unavoidable,” Mycroft said. “Threats come and they go. You knew this about me.”

Greg sighed and took a seat beside him on the sofa. “I know I did. Believe me, I know.”

“I wouldn’t hold it against you if you decided this life was too much for you and you wanted-”

“-For the love of God, Mycroft, don’t finish that sentence.”

Mycroft clasped his hands together. “I’ll increase your security. And Sherlock’s.”

“And what about John? He’s living with… with goodness knows who.”

“John’s life doesn’t concern me.”

“John’s life concerns Sherlock.”

They both studied each other and Mycroft sighed. “Fine.”

Greg nodded and rubbed his arm. “Now what?”

“Now? Now we wait.”

Greg groaned. “Bloody hell, I knew you would say that.”

“We don’t have a choice.”

“So, we sit here like melons and wait for something to come to us? I don’t like that game, that’s not how I play.”

“It’s called strategy, Greg.”

“Well, right now, I’m not so sure about your strategies.”

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. “Then what, exactly, do you want me to do? What options do I have that I haven’t exhausted already?”

Greg nodded and held his hands up. “Alright, alright, I get the point.”

“I’m sorry. This is bothering me too.”

“I know,” Greg murmured. “I know. I just hate this.”

“I’ll talk to Sherlock about it. When he’s a little more… himself.”

“I don’t know if he’ll ever be a bit more himself, Mycroft.”

Mycroft sighed. “I know,” he said, concern written all over his face.

 

* * *

 

_January, 2014_

They both worked on New Year’s Eve. Greg hardly saw Mycroft for the next few days, as he was in bed when he got home and Mycroft left before Greg had woken up. On their two year anniversary, Greg was watching the football when Mycroft returned. He lay along the sofa resting his head in Greg’s lap.

Greg stroked his hair. “You alright, love?” he asked.

“Mmm,” was the tired reply as Mycroft took his mobile phone out of his pocket and turned it off.

Greg raised his eyebrows. He didn’t think he’d ever see the day when Mycroft turned his phone off. Then the house phone rang. Mycroft groaned and sat up.

“Want me to get it?” Greg asked him.

“Please.”

Greg stood up and picked up the phone. “Holmes and Lestrade residence,” he said with a cheeky grin in Mycroft’s direction. Mycroft rolled his eyes, but he smiled anyway.

“Hi, Greg. It’s Anthea. Mr Holmes turned his phone off. Is everything well?”

“Hang on a sec.” Greg covered the speaker. “It’s Anthea. She wants to know why you switched your phone off.”

Mycroft groaned. “Just tell her I’m being stalked by an incompetent minister, and I refuse to field any more calls from him.”

Greg laughed and relayed the message before hanging up. He returned to the sofa and Mycroft put his head head back in his lap. They celebrated those two years together with a quiet meal and some vigorous sex on the sofa.

 

* * *

 

“Blast!”

Greg frowned and walked into Mycroft’s office. “You alright?” he asked, watching as Mycroft lifted paperwork off his desk and frowned to himself. 

“I’ve lost the Stannenberg papers. They were in a blue folder, I appear to have misplaced it.”

Greg shrugged and began picking up folders and paperwork from the desk. “I dunno, I haven’t been in here in weeks.”

“I wasn’t blaming you.” Mycroft frowned and tried to open the bottom drawer of his desk. He managed to open it part of the way before it was trapped by a notebook. “I have three offices, and never enough space.”

Greg smiled. “Maybe time for a clear-out?”

“I suppose.” Mycroft looked up at him from the floor. “Or we might look for somewhere new to live.”

Greg frowned at him. “Somewhere new?”

“Yes. A house somewhere in London, perhaps with an office each.”

“You want us to find a house?” Greg repeated.

“What do you think?”

Greg began to smile. “I think it’s a great idea.”

“Excellent. What sort of thing would you like?”

“A really big bed.”

Mycroft chuckled. “I’m sure that goes without saying.” He stood up and walked towards Greg and gave him a chaste kiss. “I’ll start to assess our needs for a new home.”

Greg smiled. “You’re the best.” Greg frowned. “This doesn’t have anything to do with Moran does it?”

“No. No, it just seems like the right time.”

Greg nodded and kissed him. “You’re right. It is.”

 

* * *

 

As a few weeks went on and a list of estate agents’ numbers began to be written onto a piece of paper in the kitchen, Greg started to feel like moving out of Crusader House was the best thing for them.

There was a tinge of sadness there. A lot had happened between them surrounded by these walls. But although large for a flat, it suited one person more than it did two, plus two animals. And Greg thought that although there was a lot of good here, there had been a lot of bad too.

Moving out together would only affirm their commitment.

They were content to remain in London, but were looking at houses rather than flats. Greg wanted a garden. Mycroft wanted a pool, although Greg thought (hoped) he was kidding, because there was no way they could afford that.

Greg caught himself looking into estate agents’ windows every time he came across one and spent time imagining what the decor could look like. He began going through his finances to see how much he could spare.

But while the prospect of house-hunting was exciting him, the Sherlock situation was not far from his mind. When John was in the room, Sherlock was perfect. Just the same as he had ever been. But when Greg and Sherlock were left alone together, Greg watched his face change.

He wondered whether anyone else had seen it. Whether Molly had caught him looking unhappy, whether Mrs Hudson had caught him with a syringe.

They were stood looking at a body one afternoon. It had been nailed to a cross, and Sherlock was fascinated by the symbolism. Sally left the room to collect something, leaving Greg and Sherlock alone together.

Greg strolled over to him, but before he had time to say a word, Sherlock swung around. His fist connected with Greg’s jaw, and he let out a cry of pain and surprise as he grabbed it.

Sherlock’s eyes widened. “Oh,” he said.

Greg raised his eyebrows at him. “Oh?” he repeated, holding his jaw and wincing. “Bloody hell. Sorry would be a better reply.”

“Sorry, Lestrade,” Sherlock said, turning back to the body and rubbing his fist. “You surprised me.”

“You knew I was in the room.” Greg frowned, going over what had just happened in his head. All too late, he realised. “I walked over your right shoulder, didn’t I?”

“Yes.”

Greg sighed. “Sherlock, you need to talk about this with someone.”

“You’re the only person I’ve hit.”

“No, Sherlock. I’m the _first_ person you’ve hit. And I knew about it, and I should have known better but I did it anyway. How long are you going to carry on like this?”

Sherlock turned and glared at him before striding away from the room. Exasperated, Greg stormed out after him. “Sherlock!” he called.

Sherlock spun around, squaring up to him. “What?” he snarled. “What the hell are you doing?”

“I’m trying to help you.”

“I think it would be better if you stopped trying to do that.”

“Well, I don’t,” Greg said, holding his gaze.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “You haven’t changed a bit. You still see me as a drug-addict you can cure. You always have. You think you can change Mycroft too. You think you can make him a better person just by being there. You’re wrong, Lestrade. People don’t change. Stop trying to save people.” And with that he turned away again and stormed down the stairs, barging past Sally as he went.

Sally stared up at him. “What the hell did you do?” she asked Greg.

“What the hell did _I_ do?” Greg repeated. “What about what the hell did _he_ do?”

“He’s obviously not coping with being back. You must know that.”

Greg stared at her. Sally Donovan. One person who couldn’t stand Sherlock, and she was giving Greg lectures. That was… new.

“Yeah, I know,” Greg said with a sigh.

Sally shrugged a little. “Go after him. I’ll sort it out here.”

Greg nodded. “I owe you, Donovan.”

“I know,” she said with a half smile. “Just stop him from self-destructing, so we can all get on with the work.”

Greg went down the stairs and into the car park. It was drizzling and he pulled his coat more tightly around himself. He found Sherlock leaning by a wall, his arms stiff by his sides. Greg walked over and leaned against the wall beside him. There was a little bit of shelter from the overhang of the roof, but not much.

“You didn’t go,” Greg said.

“No.”

“Why not?”

Sherlock looked up at where a search and rescue helicopter travelled over their heads. “I was running through woods in Sarajevo. Have you ever tried running through woods, Lestrade? It’s not like they portray it on television. The ground is full of rocks and twigs, trees get in the way all the time. Stop, start, stop, start. I was being shot at from above. Apparently the noise of a helicopter is a trigger for all those memories.”

Greg glanced at him. Greg would have expected if someone was triggering a bad memory they’d be obviously struggling. But Sherlock remained as impassive as ever. Which probably meant it was all in his head. And if it was in Sherlock’s head then it was a thousand times worse than any noticeable reaction.

“When I got through it all,” Sherlock continued. “I thought I would be coming home. But I’m not sure where that is anymore.”

They stared out across the car park, watching their breaths in the air. “What did we do, Sherlock?” Greg finally asked, frowning. “How the hell did we all end up like this?”

Sherlock shook his head. “Do you think it was easier in 2005, when we met? It wasn’t.”

They stood in silence for a while before the helicopter finally moved off and Sherlock hailed a taxi. Greg watched him go, idly playing with the nicotine patch on his arm.

Mycroft must have noticed something was wrong (and the beginnings of a bruise on Greg’s jaw) when Greg got home, because he instantly made them each a cup of coffee and put his work away. They lay together on the sofa in silence.

“Take me to bed,” Greg finally murmured after they’d been there for over an hour.

Mycroft didn’t say a word as he took his hands and led him there.

 

* * *

 

_February, 2014_

The Waters Family case never went away. Greg found himself in court, with a not guilty verdict from the assembled jury.

 

_Police Are No Closer To Waters Gang Conviction_

_Waters Gang claim Police persecution, 40 officers on case left empty-handed._

_The infamous brothers, known to the public as ‘The Waters Gang’, walked out of custody last night swearing to clear their names in what has become a game of cat and mouse between the Scotland Yard and the criminal underworld._

_Derek Waters, speaking on behalf of himself and his brother, stood on the steps of the Scotland Yard building and shook his fist at the building behind him, claiming that his family were the victims of a persecution campaign by incompetent police officers._

_A team of 40 officers and administrative assistants have been working that case for seven months now, trying to piece together evidence that will lead to a conviction, but none has been forthcoming._

 

* * *

 

 

It was Valentine’s Day - a day neither of them celebrated - that they finally surrounded themselves with possible houses. Mycroft had printed out a selection he had liked the look of, and they were going through the pictures, house layouts and, to Greg’s dismay, prices.

“Mycroft?” Greg asked, picking up the picture of a gorgeous-looking house. But not one they’d ever afford.

“Mmm?”

“You have to be a bit realistic. I mean, I know these look really nice and all, but that’s too many zeros.”

“No, it’s not.”

Greg frowned. “Um. Yeah. It is.”

“Greg, we can afford these.”

“No we can’t. Look, I accept that your salary is a bit bigger than mine but… Well, we can’t afford these.”

“With my salary, freelance CIA work and family inheritance, yes we can.”

Greg stared at him. “We can afford this one?” he asked, picking up a piece of paper. “And this one?”

“Yes.”

“You see,” Greg started. “I thought we were buying a house together. I don’t want to… owe you.”

“You don’t owe me anything. I like to live in a certain degree of comfort, and these houses fit all of our specifications. Look, this one has five bedrooms-”

“-Why the hell do we need five bedrooms?”

“Why not?” Mycroft simply asked.

Greg snorted. “Neither of us do much entertaining. No one’s ever going to sleep in them.”

“Well, if we’re no longer living so centrally then when people do visit us, they might like to stay.”

Greg laughed. “Who are you expecting stays over, exactly?”

“Perhaps Sally and Sam. Sherlock may. My parents.”

Greg frowned. “And a pool. I thought you were kidding about the pool.”

“No. And look, these have two offices, one for each of us. There are several reception rooms.”

“Why do we need several reception rooms?”

“Greg, I am expecting to work far more from home in the future.”

Greg looked at him. “You are?”

“Yes. And I need somewhere comfortable, where I can invite dignitaries and ministers to visit. And I expect this will be our last home. It has to be somewhere we can retire to.”

“Retire,” Greg repeated, stunned. “God, I’ve never even thought about retiring.”

“It’s a certainty, surely?”

“Yeah, if I don’t get killed by Moran first.”

“You’re not going to be killed by Moran,” Mycroft said, rolling his eyes and ruling out one of the houses after reading how many bedrooms it had.

“I’m not putting anything past him while he’s out there,” Greg said, watching him. “That poster was a warning. And I have no idea what he’s warning me off, except that he used to work for Moriarty, and Moriarty was a nutter, and therefore, he must be a nutter too.”

Mycroft sighed and picked another picture up from the desk. “This house has a wine cellar.”

Greg groaned. “Mycroft. C’mon. We need to talk about this.”

“There is nothing new to say.”

“Moran. You must know something about him at least.”

“Very little. His name is Sebastian, his surname wasn’t always Moran. He’s a former soldier, expelled from the army for a friendly fire incident, but with enough dirt on that particular regiment that they never brought him to a tribunal. He went missing for two years, and the next thing, as we know, he was working in Hadrian Kickcudbright’s CCTV control room.”

“So, we’re waiting,” Greg said with a sigh.

“I’m afraid so. Now, how many rooms would you like to yourself? Just an office, or another space as well?”

Greg just groaned and slumped back into the sofa.

 

* * *

 

Three days later, Greg got home to find the Holmes brothers sitting in the living room. Mycroft was sipping a glass of whiskey, Sherlock a cup of tea. Greg frowned a bit and hung his coat up. “Alright,” he murmured warily. “What’s going on?”

“Mycroft’s being ridiculous,” Sherlock said with a fake smile. “And I’m here against my will.”

Mycroft snorted. “Hardly. You could leave at any moment.”

Sherlock grinned and stood. “Excellent. I’ll be-”

“-Sherlock,” Mycroft snapped.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and sat back down. “Then will you get to the point? I’m very busy and important.”

Greg laughed to himself, heading for the kitchen.

“Oh yes,” Mycroft said. “You have rabbits to dissect.”

“Hares,” Sherlock replied.

Greg turned the kettle on, standing in the doorway to listen to the conversation.

“Anyway,” Mycroft said, sipping his drink. “You really haven’t noticed anything… untoward? Deduced anything suspect?”

“No,” Sherlock said. “She’s fine.”

“Are you certain?” Mycroft asked.

Sherlock frowned at him. “Why? What did you see?”

“Far more than you did, it appears. You must be losing your touch.”

Sherlock glared at him. “I’m not losing anything.”

“You failed to deduce mine and Greg’s relationship.”

Sherlock laughed and shook his head. “Probably because I didn’t want to notice it.”

“Hang on,” Greg said, crossing his arms. “You two are better are taking a look at someone and knowing everything about them than anyone else in the world. And you can’t even agree about Mary.”

Sherlock and Mycroft stared at each other for a moment. “She’s fine,” Sherlock said. “I’ve seen her a number of times. I’ve never deduced anything which concerns me.”

“Very well,” Mycroft said. “Though, perhaps you could involve yourself in the guestlist for the wedding? Report back if you stumble across something which… concerns you.”

“I’m not getting involved in the wedding.”

“Sherlock,” Mycroft said, his voice low. “You’ve been in London not even half a year and John’s already been abducted once. Even if the problem is not Mary herself, is it not worth finding out who she acquaints herself with?”

Sherlock pressed his lips together. “Fine. I’ll investigate the guestlist. And you’re not coming.”

“I have no wishes to attend,” Mycroft said. “Marriage is an out-dated ritual. Greg and I live perfectly contentedly without a need for it.”

Greg frowned a little to himself and turned to walk into the kitchen to make himself a coffee before Mycroft saw his face. That stung a little. He hadn’t considered them marrying, but they were getting a house together. Marriage felt like a natural progression, not that he'd given it any thought.

He heard Sherlock say he was leaving and he pushed it from his mind as he fed the cats and joined Mycroft on the sofa.

“I explained the Moran situation,” Mycroft said. “But I didn’t tell Sherlock that Mary Morstan didn’t exist until relatively recently. Knowing Sherlock, he’d confront her and we’d be back to square one.”

Greg nodded. “Alright,” he said, willing to trust Mycroft on this one for now, though it sat uneasily with him.

 

* * *

 

_March, 2014_

Greg continued to meet with Sherlock once a week, but the more time went on, the more they focused entirely on cases. John began to join them again. Sherlock and John began to turn up on crime scenes together.

Sherlock had begun to take his own cases as well, and he and John found themselves reporting to Greg one afternoon and giving statements for an kidnapping case. Sherlock finished first, and left the room to talk to a client on the phone.

“So,” Greg said, frowning down at the paperwork. “Sherlock figured it out from the bloke’s watch?”

“What do you talk about?” John asked suddenly.

Greg looked up at him. “What? Who?”

“You and Sherlock. During your weekly meetings.”

“We talk about cases.”

John nodded and signed his statement. “He won’t talk to me,” he said. “I can begin to guess what happened during those two years, but he won’t bring it up.”

“Then ask him about it,” Greg said. “You know, you’re like me. You don’t talk about your feelings. But… Sometimes I think people like Sherlock and Mycroft, they need to hear them. They don’t realise that someone gives a damn.”

“What really happened while he was going around the world?” John asked. “I know he’s told you things.”

“Not my place, John. You ask him. Don’t ask me.”

John nodded and handed Greg the pieces of paper. “I don’t how you did it. You just… accepted it all so easily.”

“What else can we do, John? It’s Sherlock. And I’m glad he’s alive.”

John nodded. “Yeah,” he said, glancing at the door. “Cheers.”

“No worries. See you soon.” Greg turned to his computer, but watched John leave, wondering how on earth he was ever going to be completely alright again.

 

* * *

 

_April, 2014_

Greg watched out of the window as the car was driven up the long driveway to the house in Kingston Upon Thames. Mycroft was on his phone, but Greg saw him look up as the car stopped. Greg looked over at him. “First impressions?” he asked.

“It’s… nice,” Mycroft said.

Greg got out of the car, looking up at red-brick building with black Tudor-style beams across the front. It was private. Greg couldn’t remember how close the nearest houses were, but they wouldn’t be over-looked here.

He turned around as a yellow Mini pulled onto a driveway and a woman stepped out the car with a bright smile. “Hello!” she said, holding her hand out. “I’m Lydia. Welcome.”

“Greg,” he said, shaking her hand. “And that’s Mycroft.”

She smiled and shook Mycroft’s hand too. “Well, welcome to Cedar Court,” she said. “It’s a period house as I’m sure you can guess.”

“It’s a remarkable story,” Mycroft said, turning to Greg. “Much of it was actually constructed 500 years ago in Colchester. But it was moved here, brick by brick, around 100 years ago.”

“Quite right,” Lydia said, beaming at him. “Of course, unfortunately it’s been left in some disrepair. The outside has been extensively restored, and an extension added, which now houses a pool. But inside… well, it’s a wonderful character house, one which requires a little bit of TLC.”

She unlocked the black door, holding it open to them both. Greg stepped in. The hallway was bright, with a white marble floor and a sweeping staircase. Greg let out a low whistle.

Lydia showed them around. It was dusty, with paint half-stripped from some walls and wallpaper ripped off. The original flooring looked as though it needed some repairs too. After showing them every room, she left them to explore by themselves. Greg touched one of the panelled walls, frowning. “Who the hell lets a house like this end up this way?” he asked.

“The owners just ran out of money and care,” Mycroft said, looking up at the original beams on the ceiling. “This would make a wonderful office.”

Greg smiled. “Yeah,” he agreed, glancing at the fireplace and the wooden panels on each wall. “I can see you in here.”

“It has everything,” Mycroft said. “Five bedrooms, a pool, a wine cellar, room for us each to have an office. A garden, three reception rooms.”

“It does need a lot of work,” Greg pointed out, frowning at some of the dodgy wiring along one wall.

“Yes. But it’s less expensive than the others because of that.”

Greg laughed a bit. “Is this your way of compromising? It’s still a mile out of my price range.”

“It’s only a half hour drive from our work,” Mycroft said.

“Yeah,” Greg murmured. “I like Crusader House.”

“As do I,” Mycroft said, walking over to him and touching his shoulders. “But it was always just a place to rest my head.”

“Yeah.” Greg bit his lip. “Looking for a home, right?”

“Yes.”

Greg smiled and kissed him, winding his arms around his waist. They each hummed into the kiss, losing themselves in it until they heard a soft cough beside them.

They broke apart, both smiling at each other before turning to face Lydia, who was grinning with amusement. “It’s not your home yet,” she said, her eyes sparkling.

“No,” Mycroft agreed. “Not yet.” Greg grinned and nodded in silent agreement. “Will you explain what we need to do next?” Mycroft asked as they began to leave.

Greg stopped in the driveway and took one final look at the house. Really, it was more than he could ever have dreamed of. He turned his head to where Mycroft was waiting by the car. He smiled to himself. Really, all of this was more than he could ever have dreamed of.

 

* * *

 

_May, 2014_

Back to earth with a bang. Greg kicked the back wheel of his car, fuming.

“Greg!” Sally called out to him.

“In the act!” he shouted. “The only way we’re gonna do this. In. The Act!” He kicked the tyre again, before getting into the car, shutting the door on Sally in the process.

“Oi!” she fumed at him as she got in, pointing a finger in his direction. “Chill the hell out.”

Greg hit his hand off the steering wheel. “Sorry,” he muttered through gritted teeth, driving them away from court.

 

_Waters gang walk free - again!_

_The smile on Derek Waters' lips said it all - the smile of a man who knew that he was an 'untouchable'._

_Despite overwhelming evidence, Scotland Yard were unable to secure a conviction against him and his brother for armed robbery._

_A microscope sample of DNA found on the inside of a Halloween mask was the only scrap of evidence the police could find._

_Brian Waters, the younger brother of Derek, actually appeared to dance down the steps of the Old Bailey like Fred Astaire himself, knowing that he was a free man and that the careers of several senior police officers were hanging on a knife-edge._

_The Waters gang, as they have become known to the public, have declared that they have been the victims of a persecution campaign of harassment from Scotland Yard, who refused to comment._

 

* * *

 

  _June, 2014_

Some days, sitting in the sun outside the Yard and drinking a coffee, Greg wasn’t sure life could get much better. He smiled when he saw Mycroft was calling him. “Lestrade.”

“Good afternoon.”

Greg grinned, glad to hear the informal greeting rather than there being a reason to panic. “Afternoon. What’s up?”

“I need you to gather Sherlock and Doctor Watson.”

Greg groaned. “Do I have to?” he asked. “I was having such a nice quiet day.”

“There’s a matter which needs attending to at 29 Ryder Lane, Brockley.”

“Oh yeah?” Greg asked, already moving towards his office. “What’s going on?”

“It’s…” Mycroft paused. “It isn’t really something I can explain over the phone.”

“Top secret?”

“Yes. And… well, I’m sure if I tell you, you’ll think I’m going mad.”

Greg laughed. “Already think that, love. Go on. Try me.”

“29 Ryder Lane has been used as part of an MI5 mission for the past six months. But it has a rather unexpected visitor.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yes. There’s an elephant in a room there.”

Greg snorted and burst out laughing. “I’m sorry. You what?”

“It’s not a laughing matter,” Mycroft scolded, but Greg could hear the amusement in his voice.

“Not a laughing matter? A proper elephant?”

“Yes. Not quite full-grown, I’m led to believe. But I haven’t got time to investigate, so if you wouldn’t mind…”

“Already on the case,” Greg said, grinning as he sat down at his computer to find out exactly where Ryder Lane was. “I’ll let you know how it goes.”

“It’s under the Official Secrets Act. Please remind Doctor Watson of that before he puts it onto his blog.”

Greg laughed. “Will do. I’ll keep you updated.”

“Please do.” Mycroft hung up and Greg contacted Sherlock and John. An hour later, they were confronting the elephant.

Sherlock stared at it. “I thought Mycroft was being hypothetical. Some sort of code for… but this is an elephant.”

Greg snorted. “Brilliant!” he exclaimed. “Your skills of observation are second to none.”

Sherlock shot him a scathing look.

“It looks really bored,” John said. “So, what did you say this house was being used for?”

“MI5 are doing something here,” Greg explained.

“They’re tracking somebody,” Sherlock murmured, stepping in and holding his hand out to the elephant. “There’s evidence of surveillance equipment.”

“Careful it doesn’t bite your hand off,” Greg warned.

Sherlock touched the elephant’s trunk, and it responded warmly to him. They all continued to stare at it.

“How the hell did it get in here?” Greg asked.

Sherlock shook his head. “Fascinating.” He studied it more closely, before realising there was a loose rope around its neck, with an envelope attached. “It’s for you,” he said, handing it to Greg.

Greg paused, staring at the words Detective Chief Inspector Lestrade written on the front. He ripped it open and pulled out the piece of paper. In red pen it simply said: _Some other time, Detective Inspector Lestrade._

Greg felt his blood run cold.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows at him and snatched the piece of paper from him. He bit his top lip and handed it back to Greg. “You need to tell Mycroft.”

Greg nodded numbly, stepping out of the room and leaning against the wall. “Need to do something about the elephant,” he murmured. “Call all the zoos.”

“We’ll do it,” John said, watching him.

Greg nodded. “Cheers.” He walked out of the building, driving to Mycroft’s office. He handed the envelope to him and he saw Mycroft’s welcoming smile drop in an instant.

“Moran,” was all he said.

Greg slumped into a chair and sighed. Mycroft’s silence told him everything he needed to know about the potential seriousness of this new development. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cedar Court is real, and its story is really remarkable. I've taken a lot of creative license in adding a pool and reducing the number of bedrooms. The full story is here: http://www.telegraph.co.uk/property/propertyadvice/propertymarket/3302448/The-mansion-that-moved.html
> 
> While we're on the subject of houses, Crusader House is real too. (don't click on this link if you have certain images in your mind for what it looks like and want to keep them that way!): http://www.buildington.co.uk/buildings/london_sw1/13-15_pall_mall/crusader_house/id/3183


	67. Tell Me What's Next

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're running towards the end.   
> Thanks cltc75, miss_anthr0pe, Abbennett, WhiskeySally, Mice, ladyxdarcy, JustLookFrightenedAndScuttle, catko, Superwholockgal, MoonRiver, CommunionNimrod, ainraatheexplorer, roosickle, Iaccidentlyatemyunicorn, ClassyGirlsWearPearls, allmyworldsastage, ivefoundmygoldfish (melonpanparade), Copgirl1964, psychicdreams, gngrxx, Cumberbitch..., KingTaran, Jalizar, AzarathMetrionZinthos, undun, theconsultinghobbit, Jill - you're all utter superstars and make my day!

_July, 2014_

Furniture shops. Wallpaper samples. That was Greg’s life for the moment. The builders, electricians and plumbers had all started their work at Cedar Court with impressive speed.

Mycroft had an eye on every detail, even ones Greg would have discounted entirely. They were talking about light switches for goodness sake. Light switches. What normal person cared what style or colour light switch they had? Mycroft did, apparently.

He also cared about the artwork for each room, and they spent a number of weekends at auction houses in and around London. And Sotheby’s. Sotheby’s had been an experience and a half with the obscene amounts of money people paid for art. Mycroft preferred to observe the proceedings, thank goodness, because Greg didn’t want another debate about money.

Mycroft did commission for Sam to visit Crusader House and paint Scully and Mulder sitting on the sofa. Greg understood from Sam that they weren’t very good at sitting still.

But Greg was loving it. He loved seeing the designs for each room that the architects and designers had drawn-up and Mycroft had approved. There was a hint of ostentatiousness with his furnishing choices, but mostly it was understated and very carefully planned out.

Their offices were put beside each other with a double door between them, so they could work together if necessary. There was a formal living room, and an informal one with a television. And a cinema room - the room Greg was looking forward to the most.

Mycroft hired a gardener. He hired two cleaners and someone to keep their fridge stocked. He recommissioned the doorman from Crusader House (Greg had always assumed he came with the building, but apparently he was actually Mycroft’s employee).

Greg didn’t think he’d ever been so content. Yes, there was a threat hanging over them, but wasn’t there always? He’d never been so sure of anything in all his life.

Greg sighed as he slumped onto their sofa in Crusader House after work, looking around at the living room. “We had our first kiss on this couch,” he said, rubbing the arm rest. He knew this was one thing they were not keeping. The leather was beginning to sag, and it was definitely not as comfortable as it had been several years ago.

“Yes we did,” Mycroft replied, watching him with a frown. “Are you getting sentimental over a piece of furniture?”

Greg laughed and looked at him. “Little bit. Problem?”

“No.” Mycroft smiled and sat down beside him, drawing him into a soft kiss. “Greg, we should probably have a conversation.”

Greg raised his eyebrows. “We have conversations all the time. I’m guessing you have something a bit more specific in mind.”

“I do,” Mycroft confirmed. “The wedding is fast approaching and my concerns about Ms Morstan haven’t changed. And then there was the stunt with the elephant…”

Greg snorted. “Yeah. That was new.”

“I almost miss Moriarty,” Mycroft murmured. “At least he just blew things up.”

Greg shook his head. “No. Don’t ever say that.”

Mycroft touched his hand. “Sherlock and I were ahead of his game the whole time. We lured him in by increasing Sherlock’s publicity. Moran, however, is out for vengeance, and I don’t believe he cares if he dies.”

“Do you know where he is?”

“No.”

“Bugger,” Greg muttered.

“Indeed.”

“Alright,” Greg said, standing up beginning to pace over the floor. “What’s he good at?”

“He’s a trained sniper. A good shot. A very good shot, in fact. He’s not careless and he is ruthless. He’s good at tracking his intended victims. He’s very good at hiding. Far too good.”

“And good at making plans?” Greg asked.

“I hope he’s got more brawn than brain.”

Greg stared at him. “You hope?”

“That’s all I’ve got.” Mycroft stood up and began to walk towards his office. “Come with me.”

Greg followed him through. There wasn’t much left in Mycroft’s office now. He’d sorted through through of all his important documents and many had been moved to Whitehall or Mayfair. His desk remained, along with some books and his computer.

Greg stood behind him as Mycroft sat down and opened up his laptop. He rubbed Mycroft’s shoulder, leaning down to kiss the top of his head. “You alright?” he asked.

Mycroft nodded. “I’m fine.” He clasped Greg’s hand. “And we’ll be fine.”

“Talk to me,” Greg murmured.

Mycroft paused for a moment, watching as his screen loaded. “I used to know everything,” he said. “I could predict everything with a reasonable degree of certainty. Moriarty was… erratic. He planned things through, but his patience hung on a knife edge. One false move by anyone, even one of his associates, and I think he’d turn on them without a thought. Moran concerns me, because I don’t think he has anything left to lose. He doesn’t have a place in the world. And worse than that, he’s targeting you.”

Greg kissed his hair. Mycroft clicked through his documents before he brought up a picture of a man in military uniform. He had dark, gingery hair and deep-set eyes. “Do you recognise him?” Mycroft asked.

Greg frowned and shook his head. “Nope.”

“It’s Moran,” Mycroft said as he went to another folder, opening up some black and white CCTV images.

“I know that place,” Greg said. “It’s um… The Blues Kitchen I think. Sam played there a few times.”

“You’re correct,” Mycroft said. “And here you are, by the bar in January 2012.”

“Jesus Christ, Mycroft, how much CCTV of me do you have?”

“More than you want to know about.”

Greg shook his head in disbelief before looking at the screen. “Yeah. Okay. I see me.”

“And do you see that man?”

“Which one?”

“The one by the bar.”

Greg peered closer. “Bloody hell, he looks like he’s checking me out.” Greg grinned a bit but his smile began to fall. “He’s got light hair, but… that’s him, isn’t it? Moran.”

“Yes.”

Greg shook his head. “I don’t get it. What the hell does he want me for?”

“I don’t know,” Mycroft said. “I’ve increased your security, and Sherlock’s and John’s.” Greg raised his eyebrows. “And my own,” Mycroft added. “I hate to say that we sit and wait but…”

“That’s exactly what you want us to do.”

“He’s not Moriarty, Greg. He is a reckless man looking for revenge, but he isn’t in the same league, intelligence wise.”

Greg sighed and nodded. “You know I trust you, yeah?”

Mycroft looked up at him, his lips parted. “No,” he said quietly. “No, I didn’t know. Not after… not after everything with Sherlock.”

“Oh,” Greg murmured, leaning down to kiss his brow. “Well, I do. Okay? I trust you.” He knelt down in beside Mycroft’s chair, reaching for his hand. “I trust you. And I trust you to make the right decision on this, whatever it might be.”

He felt his heart speed up a little as he realised what he’d done in kneeling in front of Mycroft. He knew then. He was going to propose to him, not now, but some time in the future. The talk of John and Mary's marriage had got him so bloody sentimental…

“You always have been a constant source of surprise for me, Greg,” Mycroft said.

Greg smiled and kissed his knuckles. “I love you, Mycroft.” He stood up and kissed his mouth, Mycroft’s frown disappearing along with it. “You and me can get through anything.”

Mycroft nodded. “I agree,” he said. “And I love you too.”

Greg kissed him again. “I know. We’re gonna get through this. All of us. Now, you find Moran, and I’ll make us dinner.”

Mycroft chuckled quietly, turning back to his laptop as Greg made for the door. “Oh, Greg?”

“Yeah?”

Mycroft held out some papers. “The designers have sent us several ideas for our bedroom, will you take a look at these?”

Greg burst out with a delighted laugh and took them. “Too right I will,” he said, flicking through them as he headed for the kitchen.

 

* * *

 

Greg was in Bart’s one afternoon, ready to pick up a stack of files for some cases he was working on.

“I just had a thought,” Molly told him, holding a large metal bowl.

Greg stared down into it. “Is that a brain?” he asked in disbelief. He’d never seen a brain this close up before. It was rather odd-looking. And weird to think that Mycroft had the same ugly brain that everyone else had, and yet he was so much smarter…

“What if John asks Sherlock to be his best man?” Molly asked.

“Well, he will, won’t he?” Greg replied. “He’s bound to. So?”

“So he’ll have to make a speech in front of people.” Greg frowned for a moment. Yeah, that was a thought. “There’ll be actual people there, actually listening,” Molly continued.

“Well, what’s the worst that could happen?” Greg asked her.

“Helen Louise probably wondered the same.”

“Helen Louise?”

Molly gestured down towards the brain. Greg frowned at her as she began to walk away with her bowl. “It’ll be fine,” he said. “Give Sherlock a little faith, yeah?”

“I’ve seen him, Greg,” she said, turning to look at him and speaking quietly so other people in the room didn’t hear. “He’s not… he’s not coping.”

Greg pressed his lips together. “What did you see?” he asked.

“Nothing very specific. But he starts at sudden noises and when you walk up to him. It’s not very noticeable except…”

Greg nodded. He knew. It wasn’t noticeable, unless you’d been in love with him for years, like Molly had, and knew his shoe size and resting heart rate.

“I mean,” she continued. “The thought of him doing a speech before everything would have been…” She pulled a face. “But there will be people. And John has no idea, no idea at all. He hides it from him.”

“I don’t really know what to do about that though,” Greg said. “I can only tell him to talk to John so many times.”

“I’m really worried.”

Greg patted her shoulder. “He’ll be fine,” he said. “I think he’ll be absolutely fine.”

“And the speech?”

Greg grinned. “Entertainment value will be high,” he said.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock was quiet and withdrawn when Greg went to see him for one of their weekly meetings. Greg handed him a case and went to sit on Sherlock’s chair.

“You alright?” he asked with a frown, watching as Sherlock stretched out along the sofa.

“I nearly hit John,” Sherlock said, his voice tight as he covered his eyes with the back of his arm.

Greg raised his eyebrows. “What?”

“He came from behind me while I was working and I nearly swung and hit him.”

“Oh Sherlock,” Greg murmured, sipping his tea. “Look, you really need to talk to someone about this. I’m not a professional and I don’t know what to suggest. Maybe you should find a proper person to…” He trailed off at sharp look Sherlock was giving him. “Alright,” he muttered, holding his hands up. “No professionals then.”

“No,” Sherlock confirmed.

“You could, you know, tell John.”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows at him.

“Oh yeah, that would be too easy, wouldn’t it?” Greg sighed. “Okay. I’ll tell you what. You know when someone else is in the same room as you, yeah? You always know.”

“Yes,” Sherlock agreed, frowning.

“When you hit me and nearly hit John, were you concentrating on a case both times?”

“Yes.”

Greg nodded. “You just need to try and be more aware of when people are in the room, Sherlock. That’s the only thing I can suggest. I’m sorry, I know that’s not helpful.”

“John asked me to talk to him.”

“And did you?”

“I told him about the differences between potassium salt and iodised salt.”

Greg snorted with laughter. “Of course you did,” he said, with a roll of his eyes. “Come on, Sherlock. He’s your best friend.”

“He asked me to be his best man.”

Greg began to smile. “Good. Of course he did.”

Sherlock nodded and opened the case Greg had given him. He sat up as he read through it. “Oh, this one’s actually not so bad.”

Greg smiled a little. “Never say I don’t give you anything.”

 

* * *

 

_August, 2014_

They’d got them. Near enough certain. Almost 100 per cent sure. The Waters Gang were theirs this time.

“You’ve gotta make the arrest,” Sally said. “This one’s yours, boss.”

“You’ve never called me ‘boss’ before,” Greg replied with a grin.

“Ah, well, look what happens when you’re good.”

“You know how most days aren’t good days?” Greg said as they walked to the bank. “This is a good day.”

“Not for the Waters family.”

Greg heard his phone go off, but he ignored it. This was his day. They had been working too long and too hard on this one. If he brought this one in, he knew his career was back on track once and for all. Not to mention the added confidence it was going to give him and everyone around him.

“Okay,” Sally said. “Ten men on the roof, all exits covered, the bank’s closed, so there are no hostages to worry about.”

Greg’s phone beeped again. Sally looked at him. “Sorry, no, go on, go on,” he said.

“We’ve got the tunnel entrance covered, and Davies, Willard and Christie are heading up our response on Mafeking Road.”

Greg’s phone beeped again. “Sorry, I’d better get this.”

“It’s him, isn’t it?” Sally said.

Greg looked down at his phone.

 

MESSAGES Sherlock Holmes  
2.14pm: HELP.

 

MESSAGES Sherlock Holmes  
2.14pm: BAKER ST.

 

MESSAGES Sherlock Holmes  
2.15pm: NOW.

 

MESSAGES Sherlock Holmes  
2.15pm: HELP ME.

 

MESSAGES Sherlock Holmes  
2.15pm: PLEASE.

 

He felt his blood run cold. He’d seen Sherlock only days before, but he’d seemed lost and struggling. Not as much as before, but enough that he could have returned to drugs without hesitation. And Greg remembered clear as day the last time he had received a string of messages like this from Sherlock. And he’d ended up in a coma in hospital… And then there was Moran to worry about…

“I-I, I have to go,” Greg said.

Sally stared at him. “What?”

“You make the arrest.”

“No way!”

“Sorry. You’ll be fine. I’m cool with this.”

“Jones’ll get all the credit if you leave now! You know he will!”

Greg hesitated. His career or Sherlock? He knew what always won. “Yeah, but… It doesn’t matter. I have to go.”

He ran off, grabbing his phone and dialling Mycroft. No one could get half of the police force and the army in one area quicker than he could.

“Hello?” Mycroft asked.

“Back-up,” Greg told him, getting into the car. “I need maximum back-up. Baker Street, now!”

“On its way immediately,” Mycroft replied.

His heart was beating wildly the whole journey, terrified of what he might find. He let himself into the building and raced up the stairs. He was relieved to see Sherlock sat up on his laptop.

“What’s going on?” Greg asked.

“This is hard,” Sherlock said.

“What?”

“Really hard. Hardest thing I’ve ever had to do.” He held up a book. How To Write An Unforgettable Best Man Speech. “Have you any funny stories about John?” he asked.

Greg stared at him. “What?”

“I need anecdotes. Didn’t go to any trouble, did you?”

The sirens blazed, the helicopter propellers rumbled. The curtains opened and sheet music blew off the stand. Greg was furious. There was no other word for it.

“No, Sherlock. No bloody trouble at all.” He groaned as he grabbed his phone and called Mycroft.

“How is he?” Mycroft asked as soon as he answered.

“He’s fine,” Greg muttered through clenched teeth. “He wants help with his flipping best man’s speech. You can call the team off.”

“Ah. Very well. Better safe than sorry, I suppose.”

“I’m sorry,” Greg said, running a hand through his hair.

“Not your fault. I know as well as anyone how prone to hyperbole Sherlock can be.”

“Still sorry.”

“Not to worry,” Mycroft said, as though it was nothing. “Help Sherlock, will you?”

“Always do.” Greg hung the phone up and crossed his arms. “Right,” he said, turning back to Sherlock. “I have to go back to work. If you want a hand with your speech though… I suppose I can help you out.”

“Have you given one before?”

“No.”

“I see. But you have been married twice. You have more experience than anyone else I know.”

“Well, I suppose so,” Greg said. “But I didn’t have a best man when I married Jane. The closest I had was Sam, and he just cooked the barbecue, he didn’t give a speech or anything.”

Sherlock blinked at him.

“And you don’t care a toss about that,” Greg said, rolling his eyes. “Okay. I’ll swing by tomorrow and we can deal with the speech. It’s our weekly meeting tomorrow anyway, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

Greg smiled at him. “Okay. I’ll be round tomorrow. And no more ‘help me’ texts unless you’re in genuine danger, you got it?”

“Mmm,” Sherlock said. “Pick up the sheet music before you leave.”

Greg glared at him before turning on his heel and storming out without doing what Sherlock had demanded.

 

* * *

 

Greg was flicking through the early drafts of Sherlock’s best man speech the next day, frowning at all of his suggestions. “Deathwatch beetle?” Greg asked. “Really?”

Sherlock was looking at his book. “It says to start with a funny story.”

Greg nodded, leaning back in the chair. “A funny story… well, you’ve got some interesting stories over the years, Sherlock, but I’m not sure many of them are really wedding-material.”

“We could start with how we met?” Sherlock asked. “Although, no one really cares about that. What about our first meal together? Waiting for a murderer to drive up.”

“Not sure that’s the best story for a happy day, Sherlock. Anyway. You’ve got to start with the usual. ‘Hello, I’m Sherlock, John’s best man, welcome to the wedding’, blah, blah blah.”

“I’ll remember that bit, I don’t need to write that one down.”

“It might help?” Greg suggested.

“It’s fine. Standard procedure. Next part.”

Sherlock held the book out and Greg took it from him. He flicked through the pages. “This book says read out the messages from people who aren’t at the wedding,” Greg said as he looked up at Sherlock. “Do people actually do that?” he asked.

Sherlock shrugged. “I don’t know. You should know.”

“But I don’t.”

They both looked up as the door opened and Mycroft walked into the room. Sherlock rolled his eyes and Greg grinned at him. “Hello.”

“Hello,” Mycroft said, leaning down to kiss his head. “Hello, little brother.”

“Mmm,” Sherlock muttered.

“Where are we?” Mycroft asked taking a seat beside Greg on the sofa.

“Telegrams,” Sherlock said. “But no one actually sends telegrams anymore so I don’t understand-”

“That should be easy,” Mycroft said, cutting him off. “Just read out whatever is on the card.”

“And then what?” Sherlock asked.

“Talk about John Watson. And your friendship. That should be easy enough.”

“We’re trying to think of funny stories,” Greg said, frowning.

“None of your usual murder and chaos,” Mycroft said. “I’m not sure that will go down very well with Mary’s guests.”

“Guests,” Sherlock said, turning to him. “That’s why you’re here.”

“What, you really thought I wanted to spend time helping you come up with your best man speech?” Mycroft asked. “Honestly. I’m sure the two of you can come up with something in both parts moving and fitting for the joyous occasion without my assistance. Guests, Sherlock.”

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” Sherlock said. “I’ve been vetting them. They’re all… boring and very, very normal.”

“All of them?”

“I’ve carried out 15 separate interviews on the most suspicious guests, and none of them have shown any signs of being anyone other than who they say they are. Most of them are idiots, but that’s to be expected. I thought you would have had it all sorted out by now, Mycroft.”

“I’m working on it,” Mycroft said.

“What are you not telling me?” Sherlock asked.

“I’ve told you everything.”

Sherlock returned to his laptop. “Lestrade. Funny stories about John.”

“Try his blog?” Greg suggested. Mycroft turned and lightly kissed his cheek.

“Best of luck,” he murmured, before standing up. “See you soon, Sherlock.”

“Mm,” he grunted.

Greg laughed and watched Mycroft leave. “Why don’t you talk about your cases?” he asked. He smiled as Sherlock began to read aloud from John’s blog, and the two of them began to piece together a respectable best man’s speech.

 

* * *

 

Greg and Mycroft visited Cedar Court. The rooms had been put back together, wallpapered and carpeted. Its original features had been restored. There was no furniture in place yet, but Greg had to admit, it was absolutely perfect.

He really could see them here together. For the rest of their lives.

He stood at the window of what was to be their bedroom, looking out into the gardens. “Looks amazing,” he murmured when he heard footsteps behind him.

Mycroft walked up behind him, wrapping his arms around Greg’s waist and resting his chin on his shoulder. “Is this what you expected?”

“No,” Greg said softly. “No, it’s more.” Do it now, he thought. He didn’t have a ring, but that wasn’t what was important really.

He turned in Mycroft’s arms, drawing him into a gentle kiss. “Mycroft. I. There’s something I wanted to…”

He frowned as Mycroft’s phone went off. “I’m sorry,” Mycroft said. “Hello?” Mycroft’s face began to drop.

Greg watched him with a frown. Mycroft looked up as he hung up his phone. “It’s Moran,” he said. “He’s been traced to South London. We need to go.”

Greg nodded. “Of course.” He followed Mycroft out of the house. They were quiet the whole way home, Mycroft typing on his phone. He dropped Greg off at Crusader House before going straight to work.

Greg sighed as he stepped into the flat, putting his sunglasses on the top of his head. He kicked his shoes off.

He took another step into the living room and raised his eyebrows when he saw the blond man sat in Mycroft’s seat by the fire. He was fiddling with a gun, full-length tattoos on either arm. He smiled, darkly and cruelly at him. “Hello, Greg,” he said with an Irish lilt to his voice. “Long time, no see.” 


	68. The Leaders Need A Bloody War, Congratulations: This Is Yours

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I try to be ever so nice when I post a cliffhanger and try and update ASAP. So, here we are. Less than 24 hours later. Two to go.

_August, 2014_

“Hello, Greg,” the man on the sofa said with an Irish lilt to his voice. “Long time, no see.”

Greg felt a chill pass through him. It was Moran. A man who, on his current form, required no introduction. Greg tried to appear poised and in control, squaring his shoulders and holding his eyes. “No time, no see,” he said with far more confidence than he felt. “I have no idea who you are.”

The man sighed, throwing his gun from one hand to the other. Greg watched him, taking another step into the room. “You fucking wound me,” Moran said. “I’m always the bloody bridesmaid, huh? Come on, Greg Lestrade, who do you think I am?”

Greg frowned. “I have no idea,” he said, deciding to play dumb. “But since you broke into my flat, how about you tell me?”

“Guessing is much more fun, that’s what Jimmy woulda said. You knew Jimmy, didn’t you, Greg?”

“Jimmy,” Greg repeated.

“Mmm. Jimmy. Now he was the bride and the whole fucking congregation wrapped up in one little psychotic package. You barely made the role of the church cleaner.”

“I don’t know what you’re saying.”

“Jimmy fucking Moriarty!” the man screamed out, gripping the gun. Greg froze. The man cackled with laughter. “Your face is a picture. I wish I could capture it, right now. Send a copy to Mycroft.”

“What do you want?” Greg asked, clenching his jaw.

“Take a seat,” Moran said, grinning. “Go on. And don’t, for the love of God, use your phone.”

Greg glanced around the room before sliding onto the sofa. He slowly withdrew his phone from his pocket and put it down on the floor in front of him. “What do you want?” Greg asked.

“Just a nice little chat with Mycroft. But I take it he’s not home.”

“No, he’s looking for you in South London.”

Moran laughed, throwing his head back and Greg could swear he saw something unhinged in the glint in his eyes when he looked back up again.

“Tell me, Greg Lestrade. Greg. Lestrade,” Moran muttered, as though trying his name out. “What do you see in good ol’ Mycroft Holmes? I never could figure it out.”

“He’s a good man.”

“No he’s not.”

Greg pressed his lips together. “He’s a good man,” he repeated.

“He had Jim Moriarty tortured.”

Greg clenched his fist but stayed calm. “I don’t know anything about his work. All I know is what he is to me.”

“Don’t beat around the bush, Greg. You know Mycroft’s work better than anybody. He’d make a fabulous sniper. Steady hands, no remorse. Point and shoot.”

Greg opened his mouth to say that wasn’t the case when he heard the door open and he looked over his shoulder to see Mycroft there. “Good afternoon,” Mycroft said, walking into the room. “I wasn’t aware we were expecting visitors.”

“I like surprises,” Moran said, throwing his gun around again. “How you doin’, Mycroft?”

“Well, thank you. And yourself?”

Greg frowned a bit in disbelief. Mycroft could turn on an act better than anyone he knew. Greg settled into the chair, preparing for another Oscar-deserving performance from his partner. There was no one else he would want to be in a room with when there was a gun-wielding mad man in their home.

“Excellent, Mycroft,” Moran said. “Except for the fact that my boss is dead, the network’s broken and I have no fucking life left. But yes. Perfect, otherwise.”

Mycroft took a few steps into the room, resting a reassuring hand on Greg’s shoulder. “How can I help you?”

“Can I have a cuppa?” Moran asked. “Coffee. Better make it Irish.”

Mycroft and Greg exchanged a quick look and Greg sat forward so he could get up to make it.

“No,” Moran said. “Mycroft. You make it.”

Mycroft nodded. “Very well,” he said, before heading for the kitchen. Greg heard the clinking of mugs and the soft hum from the kettle as it boiled.

“Love this,” Moran said. “Mycroft Holmes making me a drink. It’s an honour.” He cast his eyes over Greg’s body with a look which made his skin crawl. “Lucky boy, Mycroft Holmes,” he smirked. He looked up as Mycroft carried a tray through. He took the offered mug and sat back in the chair.

Mycroft sat down beside Greg on the sofa, his posture relaxed as though they were entertaining a friend of theirs for tea. “How on earth did you get in?” Mycroft asked.

“I got an elephant into a top secret MI5 building specifically set up to keep an eye on me.” Moran grinned. “I can do pretty much anything.”

“I have to admit, I was impressed,” Mycroft said. “And very little impresses me nowadays.”

“Nothing?” Moran asked. He nodded towards Greg. “You’ve got a catch right there.”

Mycroft managed a small smile. “Touche,” he said. “How can I help you?”

“I want to offer a trade,” Moran said. “My protection in exchange for information.”

“What information could you possibly have that I would want?” Mycroft asked.

“Mary Morstan.”

Greg glanced between the two of them. Mycroft’s face hardly changed but he tilted his head a little before bringing his mug to his lips. “Protection from whom?” he asked.

“From you," Moran said. "You and me have been tracking each other for years. I especially enjoyed keeping an eye on your… bit.” He looked Greg up and down and grinned. Greg shuddered inwardly. “I have other offers on the table. Charles Magnussen is interested.”

“How much is he offering you?” Mycroft asked.

“Shitloads. But your protection matters more than all the money he can offer.”

“What is Magnussen’s interest?”

“He just likes to know stuff, don’t he?” Moran said with a shrug.

“How did you come by the information?” Mycroft asked. “When I went to find it, you’d already stolen it.”

“The Waters Gang are very competent.”

“Ah,” Mycroft murmured. “Very good,” he said with a nod.

“What do you say then? I give you everything you want on John’s little bit, and you let me dance off into the sunset. Preferably in a Jaguar convertible, but I’m not pushing my luck.”

“How very noble of you.”

“I’m a good lad,” Moran said with a grin. “That’s what my mam always said. How about it, Mycroft? Love to get your fingers on information, don’t you?”

“This is how you intend to survive from now on then?” Mycroft asked. “Negotiations with the people who destroyed your life?”

Greg saw Moran tighten his grip on the gun. “We all need to get by,” Moran said. His dark eyes flicked between them. “Your position is weakening, Mycroft. There’s talk. Ripples. And you know what happens to ripples, don’t you? They turn into waves. But I’m thinkin’ bigger. I’m thinking fucking tsunamis.”

“What makes you think I have any concern for the talk of the criminal classes?” Mycroft asked. “Moriarty was a genius. You can’t convince me that there’s someone bigger than that out there. You’re alone, Sebastian. You’ve overplayed your hand.”

“You’ve overplayed yours,” Moran snarled. “You think Sherlock’s globe-trotting means everything’s over? That it’s gone?”

“I have no reason to think otherwise. You’re here negotiating with me for your life.”

Moran grinned. “Touche. One all, is that?”

“I believe so,” Mycroft said.

“Keep score, Greg,” Moran said, looking at him. “It’s one-one and we’re not finished, Mycroft.”

“I never thought we were.”

“The game. It’s not over.”

“It’s never over,” Mycroft murmured, holding Moran’s gaze.

“You’re losing, Mycroft. And you’re so blind, you don’t even see it. Look at you, in your perfect little office in Whitehall and your secret office in Mayfair. Coeur de Lion is it? Jimmy said you named it yourself.”

“I did,” Mycroft said. “King Richard I was my favourite English king. He was a great military leader, and went into battle during the Crusades. He was known as Richard The Lionheart. Richard Coeur de Lion.”

“Funny thing, hearts,” Moran said. “Jimmy always said Sherlock was pathetic. All heart. He called you the Ice Man. He admired that. If he could see you now though… You’re all heart. Look at you, in your cosy flat with your gorgeous bit on the side and your cats. Cats, Mycroft!”

“How much information have you got on Mary Morstan?” Mycroft asked, changing the subject.

“Everything.”

“Then let’s stop playing games, shall we?” Mycroft asked.

“Alright.”

“As much as I would like your information, I’m afraid I will have to, on this occasion, turn you down. I cannot negotiate with terrorists.”

Moran snorted. “Is that what you think I am?”

“Close enough,” Mycroft said.

“Fine.” Moran put his mug down. “Give me some time to get lost before you send your henchmen after me, won’t you?”

Mycroft nodded. “I’ll give you exactly 60 minutes.”

Moran released a manic laugh, waving his gun around. “Only need 20,” he said. He winked at Greg. “Some other time then,” he said before strolling out of the flat.

“What the hell are you doing?” Greg hissed at Mycroft when he finally heard the door close.

“Killing two birds with one stone,” Mycroft said, his voice low. “Sebastian is still being followed, and Magnussen will reveal the truth about Mary.”

“You need to tell Sherlock what’s going on.”

“No. He’s too sentimental. He cares far too much about her already. And you can’t tell him.”

“He trusts me.”

“All the more reason you can’t say a word,” Mycroft whispered.

Their heads both snapped up at the sound of the gunshot. Greg scrambled up from his seat, running over to the balcony. Mycroft followed slowly behind and they stepped outside after Greg pulled the doors open. They watched as a black Range Rover tore down the street, the body of Mycroft’s driver laying in the centre of the road. Mycroft’s hand tightened on the balcony as he stared down below, as people ran from their buildings on their phones, shouting for help.

“So it begins,” Mycroft murmured, looking down at the scene, his face pale.

Greg turned into him and pulled him close. They were both still staring at the body down below.

“What the hell is he doing?” Greg asked, shaking his head.

“Warning shots.”

“Warning?” Greg repeated.

“He’s leading two-one,” Mycroft murmured, pulling away and frowning. “He’s only getting started.” He turned to walk back into the flat.

“You let him get away!” Greg called after him.

Mycroft spun around to face him. “He had a weapon!” he snapped. “What did you want me to do? I had to offer him something, and my protection was not going to be it.”

“He’s not going to stop.”

“I will stop him.”

“Your driver’s dead.”

Mycroft paused for one moment, looking back out into the street. He turned to Greg, his eyes dark. “Sometimes I wish I never found reason to care at all.”

Greg stared at him as he stormed back into the living room. Greg followed. “Mycroft!” he snapped. “Don’t say things like that and then just bugger off!”

Mycroft kept walking. Marching until he was out of the door and slamming it behind him. Greg stared after him, hardly noticing as Scully scooped around his legs. He stormed back onto the balcony to see Mycroft walk out into the street, ignoring the police cars and their sirens as they raced into the road.

He got into the car without a second glance at the body of his former employee and drove off.

Greg was called into work to help out with the body of Mycroft’s driver. He warned Sally about who it was and that it would probably be taken out of her hands.

Nonetheless, she began working on the case and Greg was glad of the distraction. He had plenty to be getting on with anyway, with the Waters family’s pending trial - hopefully the one which would see them locked up for good.

When he woke up in the morning, Mycroft’s side of the bed remained untouched but for the cats taking residence on it during the night. Greg forced himself to go into work.

Another day came and went, and they still hadn’t spoken. Greg text and called Mycroft to no response, so he contacted Anthea who told him Mycroft had gone to the Holmes' family estate.

In the evening Greg was due to meet John and Sherlock for the end of the stag do, but of course, they’d got themselves horrifically drunk and didn’t even make it to closing.

More days passed and he and Mycroft hadn’t shared a word. Greg stood in their bedroom, pulling his suit on for the Big Day. Somehow, he wasn’t feeling in a celebratory mood.

He drove to the venue, checking himself into the hotel room. Mycroft wasn’t planning to come anyway, but Greg felt more alone than ever before. He couldn’t even work out what they were fighting over or for.

He sat through the ceremony beside Molly, keeping a watchful eye over Sherlock throughout. He half expected something dramatic to happen, but nothing did. It was a simple and beautiful ceremony. Mrs Hudson shed a tear. Molly sniffed. Greg sat still, seeing but hardly taking it all in.

He enjoyed the meal, drinking a bit too much probably.

“Pray silence for the best man,” were six words which instilled fear into his heart. Despite the hours he’d spent with Sherlock, he thought they’d spent more time reminiscing than actually putting together a decent speech.

“Ladies and gentlemen. Family and friends and um… others,” Sherlock began.

Greg groaned. He’d told Sherlock to come up with a decent introduction. But in truth, once he’d got the bit out of the way with the telegrams and the deathwatch beetle, it went alright. He made everyone cry.

Greg just listened, his brow furrowed. He felt proud. So very, very proud in a way he hadn’t felt since before Sherlock had ‘died’. Then of course, Sherlock invited the guests to give their theories on how a man was stabbed and embarrassed Greg in the process. So, less proud then, perhaps.

A wedding involving Sherlock Holmes could only end up in a murder and a race up the motorway to catch the killer, which Greg dutifully did.

While waiting for Sherlock to prepare his violin and music, Greg stood beside the maid of honour.

“Hello. I’m Janine,” she said, holding her hand out.

“Greg.”

“He’s taken,” Sherlock muttered as he walked past with his case. “Seeing my brother.”

Greg laughed and rolled his eyes. Janine grinned at him. “Seeing his brother?” she asked.

He felt his chest tighten at the thought. In theory… “Yes. I am.”

“Is he not here then?”

“Weddings aren’t… not really his thing. So, enjoy the wedding?”

“It was grand, yeah. And you?”

Greg nodded. “So far, so good.”

“What do you do, Greg?”

“Policeman. You?”

“PA for Charles Magnussen,” she said.

Magnussen. He looked at her. “Really? That must be interesting. How long have you done that for?”

“Oh, just a week. Well, I was the assistant to his assistant for a long time, so I suppose I've worked for him for a few years. But I work with him even more directly now.”

Greg nodded and looked up as Sherlock coughed, poised and ready with his violin. Greg stood and watched Mary and John’s dance. Sherlock’s music was beautiful.

As the party began, Greg stepped out, pulling his phone from his pocket. He dialled Mycroft’s number. It rang several times and he was just about to hang up when Mycroft answered. “Hello?”

“Hi," Greg said. "It’s me.”

“I know.”

Greg frowned. “Yeah. Right. Look, will you just… send a car round to have me taken to wherever you are?”

A pause. “Are you sure?”

“Mycroft, I don’t even know what we’re fighting over.”

“There’s a car on its way, the driver will text when he arrives. I’ll meet you at home.”

“Crusader House?”

“Yes.”

Greg sighed. “Alright. Alright, I’ll see you there.”

He waited in his hotel room until he received a message to say the driver had arrived. He slept during the journey, waking up as they were pulling into the street. He yawned as he got out of the car, traipsing up the stairs. He let himself into their flat and headed for the bedroom. Mycroft was already in bed reading a book.

“Hey,” Greg said, starting to take his suit off.

Mycroft studied him for a moment. “How was Sherlock’s speech?”

“Really good. He made people cry in a good way. There was a big problem with a murder, but… well, it is Sherlock.”

“Mmm,” Mycroft agreed, putting the book down.

Greg took his tie off and sighed as he sat down on the edge of the bed, looking around at his partner. “Go on then,” he said. “Where’ve you been?”

“My ancestral home.”

“The whole time?”

“No. I went to work first. And I also visited my driver’s wife to offer my condolences.”

“What was his name?” Greg asked, swinging his legs over so he could sit down properly beside him.

“Kamik Toor. He was 19 when I met him. He was living and working in India. He was an assistant for one of the men I was meeting there. He wasn’t treated well. His boss was corrupt. Mr Toor was paid a fraction of what he was due, but he accepted it with a smile. So I brought him to England and gave him a job as my driver. Over the past five years, he came to be my favourite of all of them. He married his young wife and they had two twin daughters.”

“Shit. I’m so sorry, Mycroft.”

Mycroft nodded and took a sip of his tea. He put the cup down and looked at Greg before speaking. “Do you know why I brought him to England, Greg?”

“No.”

“It wasn’t to improve his prospects. It wasn’t because I liked him. It was because it meant he owed me. And those who owe you something can offer the greatest amount of loyalty. Saying that, I did grow to respect him. He deserved far better.”

Greg frowned. “Your reasons for bringing him here doesn’t make the good it did for him mean any less.”

“He’s dead, Greg.”

Greg sighed and rubbed his face.

“He was killed by a trained sniper for no reason other than he was in his way or he wanted to hurt me,” Mycroft continued, his voice steady. “And if it was to hurt me then… Do you know what that means?”

Greg shook his head. “What does that mean?”

“It means Moran truly believes that I am too sentimental and think with my heart.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. “What’s right with it? Caring about people makes you weak. Look at Sherlock. Moriarty exposed his one main weakness - those he cared about. Why else did Moran target you? It was to get to me through my heart.”

Greg took a deep breath. “Mycroft what are you getting at?”

“I’m not getting at anything, I’m stating hypotheses.”

Greg shook his head, crossing his arms. “You know what it sounds like to me? It sounds like you resent me.”

Mycroft frowned at him. “Does it?”

“Yes! It sounds like you regret caring for me because it makes you weak and it means people go after you.”

“That is a concern,” Mycroft murmured.

“Then get over it!” Greg snapped at him. Mycroft’s eyes widened a little. “We’re getting a bloody house together, Mycroft. We have been together for two-and-a-half years, and it would have been more like eight-and-a-half years if you never broke up with me because you got scared. It’s fine to freak out a bit. But it is not fine to throw away the things you love because some bastard with a gun thinks it makes you weak.”

“It does-”

“It doesn’t!” Greg said, hitting the bed with the palm of his hand. “Because if you care about something, Mycroft, then you’ve got something to lose. And I think if you’ve got something to lose, then you’ve got something to fight for. So bloody well fight for it and don’t just sit there whining like a child who just dropped their ice cream on the floor. Moran’s a psycho. So go after him.”

Mycroft opened his mouth and then closed it again.

“Good,” Greg muttered. “And for the record, Magnussen is after Mary already. And I know this because her maid of honour now has a job as his personal assistant.”

Mycroft stared at him. “Really?”

“Yeah, her name’s Janine. See how useful it would have been for you to come to the night do rather than locking yourself away in your stately home?”

“It’s not a-”

“-Don’t answer back right now, Mycroft,” Greg said. “You ran away for a whole week and the only reason I knew where you were was because Anthea told me.”

“She shouldn’t have done that.”

“I don’t care. And don’t you dare have a go at her for this either. This has got to stop. You don’t lock me out, Mycroft. If you want to be alone, I understand that. But you tell me you want to be alone. You don’t just shout at me, storm out and then not call.”

Mycroft nodded, hanging his head a little. “I apologise.”

“Good. Thank you. Apology accepted. So is this it then? Is this our life? Mad men breaking in and pointing guns to my head?”

“No one has ever broken into Crusader House before.”

Greg snorted. “Great. That’s just great.”

“Greg, I’m sorry I got you involved in all of this.”

Greg shook his head with a sardonic smile. “Mycroft, you don’t get it, do you? I want to be involved. I signed up for this so I could be with you. It’s what I want.”

Mycroft reached for him, taking hold of Greg’s hands. “I don’t know how you put up with me.”

Greg smiled. “Neither do I sometimes, but I muddle through.”

“I know I make things difficult sometimes. But I wouldn’t end this, not for anything.”

Greg nodded and scooted closer to him. “Thank you.”

“One moment,” Mycroft said, looking up at him. Greg sat still, watching as he spoke. “I can’t wait to live with you in our home. I never dreamt something like this would ever happen to me. You are wonderful. And I do want to spend my life with you. You are the greatest man I've ever known.”

Greg felt his heart begin to race. “Mycroft are you…”

Mycroft frowned. “Am I what?”

“Are you?” Greg gestured in the air. “Y’know. Proposing?”

“No,” Mycroft said, his lips quirked. “No, I don’t understand why people get married. Why? Did you want me to ask?”

Greg opened and closed his mouth for a moment. “No,” he said quickly, frowning. He tried to smile. “No, of course not, we’re good. Not being married is good.”

“Yes. I agree.” Mycroft was watching him with a frown.

“Why?” Greg asked. “Why do you agree with that?”

Mycroft narrowed his eyes. “Because we’re living together and it’s wonderful. I don’t see how standing up in front of people we know changes anything. I am devoted to you, completely and utterly. I don’t need to sign my name on a piece of paper to prove that. Why do I need to prove my loyalty to you by giving you a ring?”

“Yeah,” Greg murmured. “Yeah I… I agree,” he said, though he wasn’t sure he really did. But who was he to argue with Mycroft on this one? If he didn’t want to get married then that was fine. It didn’t make them any less together.

“Do you agree?” Mycroft asked.

“Yeah,” Greg said. “I don’t want to get married.” He shrugged and started to unbutton his shirt. “But I have missed you, so can we stop fighting and make up now?”

Mycroft began to smile and pulled Greg closer. “At last. A plan I can get completely behind.” He pulled Greg into a soft kiss. 


	69. You Can't Cry, But You'll Fall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Three updates in a row, and I am hoping to finish the final chapter tomorrow. Thank yous to cltc75, psychicdreams, ivefoundmygoldfish (melonpanparade), Teafairy, JustLookFrightenedAndScuttle, ladyxdarcy, Superwholockgal, Mice, Cumberbitch..., UnicornSoulHunter, Indigoviolet, Jaeh, ClassyGirlsWearPearls, roosickle, nasri, gngrxx, WhiskeySally, undun and Chelsea. I can write about Greg's feelings when he kisses Mycroft, but I can't express my own when you guys leave such lovely comments! Please know that I am grateful, and I hope the last two chapters are a fitting end. Fingers crossed!

_August, 2014_

They both attended Kamik Toor’s funeral. He had no family aside from his wife and two daughters, but he had a wide circle of friends.

“Popular man,” Greg murmured as Mycroft signed the book of condolences.

Mycroft nodded as he took Greg’s hand and walked out with him to the car. “He was very charming.”

“Beautiful service too,” Greg said, watching Mycroft out of the corner of his eye.

“Yes. Yes, it was.”

Days like this - days where someone lost their life and they had to attend a funeral - were thankfully rare. Even with Greg’s job in the force, police deaths were an uncommon occurrence.

And Mycroft felt this death, Greg knew. Even though he’d gone through his silent grief alone, Greg knew he’d gone over it time and time again in his mind, wondering what he should have done differently. How he could have stopped Moran from doing what he did.

They went to dinner at one of Mycroft’s favourite Italian restaurants. It was somewhere quiet where they could sit in the corner and drink the rest of the day away with wine and conversation.

 

* * *

 

They took a week off from work at the end of August so they could complete the move to Cedar Court. Greg walked into the empty rooms of Crusader House with a sense of sadness he wasn’t expecting to feel. First kiss, first I Love Yous, first time he stayed the night. The rooms had witnessed a million memories.

He picked up the cat boxes and joined Mycroft at the car. They looked up at the building for one silent moment before getting into the vehicle and being driven to their new home.

The movers were already carrying furniture in by the time they arrived. Mycroft was scrutinising their every move, reminding them of how precious his desk was and to make sure they weren’t scratching the new panelling on the walls.

While Mycroft controlled the movement of furniture outside, Greg watched where it was being put, using the designers’ drawings to oversee the rooms being completed.

They collapsed, exhausted, onto a new brown sofa at the end of the day with a cup of tea.

“I’m never moving again,” Greg said.

“Moving house or moving your body?” Mycroft asked.

“Either. I’m staying here. With tea. Stay with me?”

Mycroft smiled tiredly at him. “Very well.”

Greg opened his arm out and Mycroft leaned towards him, resting against Greg’s side. Greg looked around the room, with its red walls and curtains. Warm. It was all very, very warm. He kissed the top of Mycroft’s head, relaxing properly. It wasn’t long before he was closing his eyes.

When he woke up it was with the smell of something delicious filtering through from the kitchen. He got up, stroking a sleepy and disgruntled Mulder, before heading that way to see what Mycroft had cooked up.

He wrapped his arms around him from behind, nuzzling his neck. “What you making?” Greg asked.

“A Moroccan lamb dish recommended by Anthea. Though, I’m not sure I’m doing it right.”

Greg laughed and stepped away from him, picking up the recipe. He looked over at the food. “Looks and smells alright to me.”

They ate dinner in the dining room, a far cry from sitting in the kitchen in Crusader House. They were full of promises to eat dinner together at this table at least a couple of times a week. They had learnt to understand each other’s work pressures in a way very few other people would or could.

The house may have been bigger, but Greg had a feeling they couldn’t be any closer, especially now Mycroft was undertaking some of his duties from home rather than the office. It was a huge step, but one they were taking to easily.

 

* * *

 

_September, 2014_

The boxes took longer to unpack than Greg was expecting. He left Mycroft to organise his own suits, and Greg did likewise. But they’d accumulated a wide range of books, DVDs and trinkets in the past few months, all of which needed to find a home. Greg swore he spent an entire day just hammering picture hooks into the wall. Mycroft said he was exaggerating, but the blister on Greg’s hand said otherwise.

The truth was, the house was throwing up surprises for Greg all the time. Just when he thought he’d really appreciated every nook and cranny, he came across something different.

It was a Sunday afternoon when Greg was preparing a roast dinner for later that evening. He went to give Mycroft a cup of tea in his office when he allowed himself a look around.

Mycroft’s office was dark, with panelled walls and a fireplace, his trusty old desk and brown sofa… brown sofa.

Greg frowned at it. “Is that… is that from the old living room?”

Mycroft glanced up at his computer. “Hm? Oh. Yes.”

“Mycroft it’s… it’s falling apart. We agreed to get rid of it because of how uncomfortable it is.”

Mycroft nodded, typing away. “I’m aware.”

Greg began to grin. He couldn’t believe Mycroft hadn’t just kept the sofa from Crusader House, he’d commandeered it for his office. Greg couldn’t even remember seeing it brought into the house, so it must have happened fairly recently. “Mycroft, are you getting sentimental on me?”

“Not at all.”

Greg just grinned. “I’m making a roast. You alright to join me in an hour?”

Mycroft smiled at him. “I’ll be there.”

Greg left the tea before heading back to the kitchen, chuckling to himself.

Greg struggled to think of a time when he’d been happier. Work had settled down lately The Waters Gang were in jail. His romantic life was better than it had ever been.

So when Mycroft called him to ask if he could spare five minutes to carry out a drugs bust on Sherlock’s flat in Baker Street, Greg was momentarily stunned. “A drugs bust?” he asked. “At Sherlock’s? But he hasn’t touched the stuff in… I dunno. Since he was away.”

“Not according to Doctor Watson, who found him at a drug den this morning. A test by Miss Hooper has confirmed he has been using again.”

“I’ll kill him,” Greg growled. “Stupid idiot. I told him to call me if he ever thought… for God’s sake. Sorry, what was it you wanted me to do?”

“Carry out a drugs bust.”

“When?”

“As soon as possible. Before he gets home,” Mycroft said.

“Ah. Right. Yeah, sorry, I’m due in court in half an hour.”

"I see. Don't worry.”

“Hang on,” Greg said, thinking. “You know what, I’ll send Philip Anderson round. He’s a big fan of Sherlock’s these days.”

“Do you trust him?” Mycroft asked.

“Yeah,” Greg said. “Completely.”

“Very well. I will keep an eye out for Mr Anderson.”

“Sorry I couldn’t help more,” Greg told him.

“Not to worry. Thank you for your suggestion.”

“No worries.” Greg hung up the phone and sent Anderson around straight away.

Days in court providing evidence weren’t so bad. Sure, he couldn’t keep an eye on his phone, but he was able to get away at a reasonable hour. He was feeling pretty confident about this case too. When he got home he decided to treat himself to a cold beer and to sit out in the sun for a few hours, but he found Mycroft was already home.

“Hello,” Greg said with a curious expression as he approached the sofa. “You’re home early.”

“Sherlock,” Mycroft muttered, closing his laptop down.

“Oh, the drugs? What did Anderson find?”

“Nothing. I expect they were all in his bedroom. Sherlock did, however, decide violence against the person was the perfect way to deal with his getting caught.”

“Violence?” Greg asked. “Is Anderson…”

“Mr Anderson is fine. My left arm, on the other hand…”

Greg stared at him. “He attacked you? Oh, that bloody bastard… I’ll call him and give him a piece of my mind.”

“No need. It’s not feeling as tender as it was this morning.”

“You should have called,” Greg said, crossing his arms.

“You were in court, you couldn’t have responded. Besides, what would you have done?”

“I don’t know. Told Sherlock attacking you is not the way to solve everything?” Greg sighed as he shook his head. “I thought we were doing so well.”

“Once an addict, always an addict. I made dinner, it’s in the oven.”

Greg smiled and sat down beside him. “Do you want anything?” he asked.

“Dinner, a glass of wine, a bath and an early night.”

Greg nodded. “Those things are easily provided.”

“I had hoped you might join me,” Mycroft said. “For all of those activities. There’s a bottle of wine in the kitchen, it just needs to be decanted.”

Greg grinned and kissed him. “It’s a date.”

Mycroft smiled and opened his laptop again as he went back to work. Greg wandered to the kitchen and opened the wine to air before checking on dinner. He fired off a text to Sherlock.

 

MESSAGES  
5.14pm: You and me are having  
words tomorrow.

 

Greg finished sorting out dinner and Mycroft joined him in the dining room.

“Thank you for doing this,” Mycroft said.

“Think nothing of it. You did the hard work, I just got it out of the oven.”

“How was your day?” Mycroft asked.

“Far better than yours by the sounds of it. Just court, so finished early. Do you need a hand cutting that?”

Mycroft sighed and slid his plate over so Greg could cut up the pork for him. Greg shook his head. “Bloody Sherlock,” he muttered. He slid the plate back over and returned to his food.

“He does have a skill for ruining my moods,” Mycroft said. “I had an excellent day planned with lunch with the Prime Minister, and several hours at the Diogenes thinking. Instead, I had to eat finger-food with the Prime Minister because my left arm ached, and I was too angry to sit and think.”

Greg squeezed his knee. “Well, I hope I can improve your mood. Starting with that bath.” He stood and kissed the top of Mycroft’s head. “Let me go and run it for us.”

“Greg?”

“Mmm?”

“Thank you.”

“No need,” Greg said with a smile. He headed upstairs and started to fill the bath with water and bubble bath. He stripped out of his shirt and trousers, watching the water run. Mycroft joined him in the bathroom dressed in only a dressing gown.

Greg finished getting undressed, his body heating up under Mycroft’s gaze. He turned the taps off, checked the temperature and slid in, spreading his legs so Mycroft could get in between them. He let out a contented sigh as Mycroft’s back came to rest against his chest.

He wrapped his arms around Mycroft’s middle, pressing soft kisses to his shoulders and the back of his neck.

“It’s been so long since we did this,” Greg said with a happy sigh.

“I don’t think we have since we went to my ancestral home,” Mycroft murmured, tilting his head back onto Greg’s shoulder. “Buying this bath was an excellent idea, thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Mycroft, can I talk to you about something?”

“Of course you can.”

Greg bit his lip. “It’s been bothering me a bit. Not the actual topic, just…” Greg sighed. “I lied to you about something, and it’s really been nagging me.”

“About your desire to get married,” Mycroft replied. “I know.”

Greg snorted. “Course you know. Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I knew you’d talk about it if you wanted to.”

Greg nodded, kissing the side of Mycroft’s head. “I’m not bothered about what you said. You made your feelings clear, and I really respect that. I just felt bad for lying about what I thought about it.”

Mycroft squeezed his hands. “I understand why you did it. I’m sorry we don’t agree on this subject.”

“I don’t expect us to agree on everything.” Greg paused, frowning. “Look, I was going to ask you. But… I get what your feelings are and I won’t.”

Mycroft turned around to look at him. “I want to spend the rest of my life with you.”

Greg nodded. “And you will,” he said.

“What is it about marriage which appeals to you? Why did you ask to marry Caroline and Jane?”

Greg shrugged, pulling Mycroft back to rest against him. “I dunno. I guess it just seemed like the right thing to do.”

“The right thing for who?” Mycroft asked.

“It's just… the thing that people do when they’re in love and have been together a while.”

“And that’s exactly why I don’t want to do it,” Mycroft explained. “The world says ‘you have been together for a long time, but we don’t believe you are committed unless you stand up here in front of all of us and prove it’. I already know I’m committed. I know you are too.”

Greg began to smile, stroking Mycroft’s knuckles with his thumb.

“I can see the appeal,” Mycroft continued. “I know Anthea was happier married than she was unmarried because it offered her a security she’d never felt before. But I feel secure. Our house, our life. We’re surrounded by noise and chaos on every side. When I close the door, I’m happier and quieter than I’ve ever been or felt. Marriage wouldn’t change anything for me. It would be an unremarkable day, in which rather than spending the time in your company telling you and showing you the depth of my affection, I have to share it with others. Marriage is a public union. I like the thought of sharing our lives with each other, without interference, without others turning it into a spectator sport. In short, I will show you I love you in private, for the rest of our lives.”

Greg’s heart clenched at Mycroft’s words. “I love you too,” he whispered.

Mycroft turned in his arms, holding Greg’s face in his hands, surrounding his skin with bubbles in the process. “Let me show you how much,” he murmured, bringing their mouths together. Greg sighed into the kiss, laughing as the bubbles formed a makeshift beard on Mycroft’s face.

Mycroft let out an amused smile, wiping the bubbles away and kissing him again. Greg guided him onto his lap, sliding his hands down Mycroft’s back and squeezing his arse. He slipped one finger down between his cheeks, tilting his head to grant Mycroft access to his neck.

He stroked the tip of his index finger against Mycroft’s hole, circling it and dipping his finger inside. Mycroft gasped and kissed him again, pressing their bodies together so their cocks aligned.

Greg groaned, pressing his tongue into Mycroft’s mouth. It never got old, no matter how many times. It was never close enough. He shuddered as they broke apart, exchanging light kisses.

“Bed,” Greg groaned.

Mycroft nodded, kissing him with so much intensity and emotion that Greg’s chest tightened and his heart raced. Mycroft got out first, dabbing his body dry with a towel. Greg stepped out, pulling Mycroft towards him. Damp but warm, they began to walk to the bedroom, limbs tangled up, laughing as they stumbled, holding onto each other for support.

Greg pulled the duvet and pillows off the bed so they wouldn’t get wet and lay down on his back. Mycroft straddled his hips, leaning down to kiss him again.

Greg allowed his hands to explore his lover’s body, those same areas he’d felt for more than two years, but still parts he adored and craved. He knew how to make Mycroft shudder. How to make him gasp. How sensitive his nipples got after Greg had rubbed them a few times with his thumb before taking it between his lips and flicking his tongue against it.

He knew Mycroft loved it when Greg left a mark on his chest above his heart - one single mark no one but they would see. He did that now, caressing the skin with his fingers before sucking it and licking it, gently biting. He kissed the red mark before lifting his head and kissing Mycroft deeply, reaching for the drawer to grab the lubricant.

He slicked his fingers before wrapping his hand around both their cocks, stroking them to full hardness.

He let his fingers drop down to Mycroft’s balls, stroking and holding them against the palm of his hand. He reached around him to press two fingers inside, gasping when he realised how relaxed Mycroft was and how easily he accepted them into his body.

Mycroft leaned down to kiss him, exploring Greg’s mouth with lips, tongue and teeth. Greg curled his fingers and they both gasped, their cocks pressed together between their bodies.

“I’m ready,” Mycroft murmured. “Please, Greg.”

“Oh God,” Greg groaned, moving his fingers a few more times before letting them slide out. He slicked his cock and held Mycroft’s hips as he positioned himself against Greg’s length.

Greg watched his face, his eyes glazed, lips wet and parted, cheeks flushed. To Greg, he was simply breathtaking. Striking, with elegant fingers, long legs, strong chest. Greg let out a gasp as the head of his cock pressed inside, surrounded by tight heat.

One of Mycroft’s hands rested on Greg’s chest as he took him deeper inside, their eyes glued together as they let out long shaky breaths.

They kissed messily before Mycroft began to move, rocking his hips. They kissed with every movement, Mycroft sitting up until only the tip of Greg’s cock stayed inside before easing back down.

Greg held Mycroft’s hips still, thrusting up into him, always watching Mycroft’s face as his eyes fell closed and he began to release soft groans between his gasps. Greg changed the angle slightly and Mycroft’s head dropped back as he hit his spot. Greg wrapped a hand around Mycroft’s cock, never taking his eyes off him.

He felt Mycroft tense around him. “Yes, love,” Greg whispered. “Yes, just let go.”

He gasped as Mycroft came, pulling him into a kiss as he thrust once more inside him, as the lights went white behind his eyes and the world was perfect in its pleasure and their joined bodies.

He held Mycroft against his chest, cradling his head. They both breathed hard, clinging onto each other. Mycroft moved first, lying down on his back and Greg rolled onto his side. Mycroft opened his eyes, letting out a content sigh.

Greg smiled as he curled up in Mycroft’s arms. They gazed at each other, exchanging soft kisses. “You should come home early more often,” Greg said with a grin, shuffling down his partner’s body and drawing Mycroft’s nipple between his lips.

Mycroft gasped, holding Greg’s head in place. “You can’t possibly be ready for a second round already.”

“I’m not,” Greg laughed, flicking his tongue against the hardening nub. “But God, you’re gorgeous.” He lifted his head and kissed him, sighing happily as Mycroft rolled them over so he was on top. Greg let his hands trace over Mycroft’s body, feeling his firm arse.

“You’re simply-” Mycroft started, and then looked up as his phone began to ring. “Oh for goodness sake,” he muttered, rolling off Greg so he could grab his phone.

Greg laughed, pinning him down onto the bed on his front and beginning to kiss down his spine.

Mycroft stretched out for the phone, gasping and writhing as Greg’s tongue licked between his cheeks. He finally took hold of the phone, and it dropped down onto the mattress. “Greg, I’m on the phone,” he muttered, but he pressed up against Greg’s mouth.

“Not yet you’re not,” Greg murmured, flicking his tongue against Mycroft’s hole, still wet from the lube and his come.

“It’s John,” Mycroft muttered as he studied the screen. “Probably sending his apologies for Sherlock’s earlier behaviour.”

Greg sat up, stroking his hand against Mycroft’s arse. “Go on. Might be important.”

“Mm. I doubt it. Hello, John. I do hope this is important. It really isn’t a good-” Mycroft sat up with a start. Greg watched him with a frown. “Where? Yes, I’ll be there immediately. Is he in surgery?”

“Surgery?” Greg mouthed, jumping from the bed and starting to pull his underwear and trousers on. Mycroft moved to do likewise and Greg began passing him his clothes.

“Yes, John. We’ll see you shortly.” Mycroft hung up, his face pale. “Sherlock’s been shot in the chest. He’s in surgery now. His heart has already stopped once.”

“Shit.” Greg grabbed his shirt, hastily doing the buttons up. “Shit, shit.”

Who, when, why were all pulsing through Greg’s brain. True policeman questions. But they weren’t important. All that mattered was getting to that hospital and supporting Mycroft. Who was currently… Sitting still and doing absolutely nothing. Mycroft’s eyes were flicking around the room.

“Mycroft?” Greg turned his attention completely onto him. “C’mon, love. Stay with me now.” He helped Mycroft struggle into his shirt and fastened the buttons for him while Mycroft called for car.

“Kamik Toor was shot in the chest,” Mycroft said quietly. “Died from the blood loss. John didn’t say where Sherlock was hit. The range of the weapon, the type of gun, the location on his chest, how deep it went… why does no one ever register this information but Sherlock and I? It is absolutely critical.”

“Because none of us are you and Sherlock. Mycroft, c’mon, finish getting dressed.”

“We live 43 minutes away, without traffic,” Mycroft murmured, his voice distracted. “We might not even make it on time.”

“Make it on time for what?” Greg stared at him for a moment, Mycroft’s eyes hardly registering he was there. “Mycroft!” Greg grabbed his face and kissed him hard on the lips. “I need you to stand up, get dressed and get in the car. Do those three things for me and then you can break down, you got it?”

Mycroft nodded. “Yes. Yes, very well.” He stood up, his hands shaking as he proceeded to put on his tie. Greg pulled open the curtains and saw a car pulling onto the driveway.

“Driver’s here.” Greg took Mycroft’s arm and led him through the landing and down the stairs. He was shaky and pale, and Greg felt sure he’d just collapse if he didn’t hold onto him. By the time Greg got him into the car though, he’d patted his face down with his handkerchief, checked the time on his pocketwatch and composed himself. Outwardly, at least.

They held hands for the whole journey, the driver finding a route which took them 37 minutes, and though it didn’t count for much, Greg found it a comfort.

They found John at the hospital, sat in the waiting room. Greg walked over to him and shook his hand. Mycroft did likewise. “Who was it?” Greg asked. “Do you know?”

“Not a clue,” John said. “We were at…” He glanced at Mycroft and frowned. “We were at Magnussen’s office.”

“Oh for goodness sake!” Mycroft snapped. “Why does everyone else always think they know better than I do?”

“Magnussen?” Greg asked, staring at them both. “Magnussen? As in… y’know. Newspaper Magnussen?” He turned to Mycroft. “Did you… did we…?”

“Sherlock went off on his own,” Mycroft said. “Deciding to take him down single-handedly.”

“He said he has information on Lady Smallwood,” John said. “He wanted to steal it from his office while he was out at dinner.”

“Lady Smallwood?” Mycroft repeated.

“Yeah.”

“I need to make a phone call,” Mycroft murmured, brushing his lips against Greg’s cheek. “And find a doctor to get some updates on Sherlock’s condition.”

“I’ll be right here,” Greg said, giving his hand a quick squeeze before letting him go.

He watched as John sunk into one of the chairs, his head in his hands. He glanced up at Greg. “Greg, your shirt buttons. They’re all…”

Greg frowned and looked down at his chest. Some were in the completely wrong holes, others skipped entirely. “I was in a rush,” he muttered, starting to straighten himself up, bearing in mind the fact it was 10.12pm and probably perfectly obvious what he and Mycroft had been up to before the phone call. Not that it was important. Not that he was ashamed, not for a single second.

He sighed and sunk into the chair opposite.

“Took you a while to get here,” John said. “I thought you lived in Pall Mall.”

“We moved,” Greg told him. “Got a house together out in Kingston Upon Thames.”

“It’s serious between you two then.”

Greg nodded. “Yeah, it is. We should have you all over some time for dinner, but there’s still boxes…” He sighed and rubbed his face. “What the hell was he thinking, John?”

“I don’t know what happened. Magnussen was injured too. So was Janine.”

Greg stared at him. “This is. I don’t even.” He sighed and let out a shaky breath.

He looked up as Mycroft re-entered the room.

“Any news?” Greg asked.

“Surgery could take a few more hours at least.” He sat down beside Greg, taking hold of his hand. “I can’t sit here and wait, I have to do something.”

“What can you do?” Greg asked.

“Find out who did this. There will be CCTV and everything else, I’m sure.” He shook his head.

Greg turned to him, holding his eyes. “Do what you have to do, okay?”

Mycroft nodded. “I can’t sit here.”

“I know.” Greg squeezed his hand. “I’ll be here for as long as I can. You call me if you need anything.”

Mycroft nodded, kissing him softly, ignoring the fact that John was on the other side of the room. “Any updates…”

“You’ll be the first to know,” Greg promised him. “Stay in touch.”

Mycroft nodded and stood up, already turning to his phone as he left the room. Greg watched him go, wishing he could do more to help, knowing Mycroft had to deal with the situation in the only way he could, even if his way of coping was to do it alone.

“It really is serious between you two,” John murmured.

Greg just nodded. “Yeah,” he said, staring down at his knees, preparing himself for the agonising wait. “Yes, it is.” 


	70. And I Think That I Have Finally Come Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank yous for the last chapter go to: Mice, JustLookFrightenedAndScuttle, psychicdreams, Abbennett, Superwholockgal, FreddyHoneychurch, roosickle, undun, artemisdecibal, gngrxx, ladyxdarcy, ClassyGirlsWearPearls, ivefoundmygoldfish (melonpanparade), Lilys, MoonRiver, Jill, cltc75, allmyworldsastage, nasri, Cumberbitch..., Numbersgirl, miss_anthr0pe, meaka_maxwell and fayetree. I wanted to send some more personal comments but it's 1am now and I have work in the morning. So forgive me, and I will send some tomorrow. More notes follow at the end of this final chapter.

_September, 2014_

Ow. That was Greg’s first thought. Ow. He felt like a lion had slept on his neck and shoulder, twisting his joints and his muscles. He opened his eyes, glancing around the sparse hospital waiting room. John was drinking a coffee, his eyelids heavy.

“Uh,” Greg muttered, checking his watch. 4.47am. Jesus. “How’s he doin’?” he asked, rubbing his face.

“Out of surgery,” John said. “But not out of the worst yet. He lost a lot of blood.”

Greg nodded, pulling his phone out. No messages. “Did you tell Mycroft?” he asked.

John nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, I text him.”

Greg stretched his arms out over his head. “Cheers.” He groaned. “I’ve got work. I really have to go home and go to work.”

“I’ll keep you updated,” John told him.

Greg raised an eyebrow at him. “You look you could use some sleep too you know?”

John nodded. “I know. But visitors are allowed in with him in…” He checked his watch. “20 minutes. So I’m going to see him first.”

“Did you tell Mycroft that too?” Greg asked.

“I did.”

“Cheers, mate.” Greg text Mycroft quickly, asking for a car to pick him up. “I want to ask what the prognosis is but…” He shook his head. “Not sure I can handle you telling me it’s not good.”

“Sherlock’s pulled through a lot,” John said. “He’s almost a medical miracle.”

Greg smiled a bit. “John. When he gets through this. You’ve just got to talk to him. The drugs, the…” Greg shook his head. “Everything. He can’t carry on like this and I don’t know how much more I can do for him. So please. Will you just sit him down and have a chat?”

John nodded. “I hadn’t seen him for a month, Greg. If I’d have known he was back on drugs…”

“I know,” Greg said. “But, mate. You not seeing him for a month is probably part of the problem. He came back from the world thinking he was returning to his home, where everything was the same. And it wasn’t.”

John blinked for a moment before taking a long sip of coffee. “We don’t talk,” he said. “Not like that.”

“Well, Sherlock talks to me, John. So you better figure out if it’s his problem or yours. Because he’s gonna need you. I know you’re married now but don’t abandon him.”

John nodded. “Thanks, Greg.”

“I’m not trying to pry. Just, offering a bit of advice.”

“I know. I do appreciate that.”

Greg raised his eyebrows before shrugging. He smiled a bit. “Come on, John. You’ve got to help me out a bit. I have two Holmeses to deal with, and they’re both as bad as each other.”

John laughed a little. “Good point.” He frowned. “Good point. Yeah. How do you do it?”

Greg grinned. “God knows. Right. Tell me how he is when you see him and I’ll be back here later probably after work. If you need anything, shout.”

“Thanks but Mary’s bringing some clothes over.”

Greg cast one last look over the waiting room before heading out of the hospital. He had a quick shower at home before driving to the Yard. News was already out that Sherlock was in hospital, but none of the media outlets had been able to ascertain exactly why.

One of Magnussen’s newspapers broke the news online at midday that he had been shot. Despite the urgings from a few people that he should go home and look after himself, he stayed at work. As he pointed out, Sherlock wasn’t family.

“Close enough,” Sally had said, shaking her head. “He’s practically your brother-in-law, you’ve known him for years.”

Greg stayed at work until 5pm. Mycroft still wasn’t there when he got home. He’d heard from John that Sherlock had woken up, briefly muttered Mary’s name, then fallen asleep again.

Greg returned to the hospital and found John there, sat beside Sherlock’s bed.

“How’s he doing?” Greg asked.

“No change since he woke up. But the doctors say it’s a good sign.”

“Mycroft been in?”

“No.”

Greg frowned a bit and took the other chair beside the bed, putting a bunch of grapes down on the table. He shook his head as he looked at Sherlock, pale with tubes coming out of him. “Idiot,” he muttered affectionately.

He stayed with John for an hour before leaving to find Mycroft. He tried Whitehall first as that office was closer, but in the end headed for Mayfair. Anthea let him into Mycroft’s secret office without a word.

Mycroft looked up, dark circles under his eyes.

Greg’s shoulders slumped when he saw him and he made his way over to Mycroft’s side of the desk, kissing the top of his head. “Sherlock’s woken up once today.”

“Yes, I know,” Mycroft said.

“Why don’t you go and see him?”

“I have far too much work to do. What good does it do if I sit and stare at him? Sherlock would do the same for me. I’m far more useful working than I am sitting by his bedside.”

Greg raised his eyebrows. “You’re also more useful if you get some sleep.”

Mycroft frowned and looked at him. “I’ve slept.”

“Really?”

“For half an hour, admittedly.”

“Mycroft, please. Let me get you home, cook you some dinner and you get some sleep. And then you can come back to work.”

“There’s too much to do, Greg.”

Greg sighed and looked at his computer. “What are you doing, anyway?”

“Trying to track Moran in Eastern Europe.”

“You think he did it?”

“I can’t think of anyone else.”

Greg sighed and rubbed Mycroft’s shoulders. “Come home with me. Please.”

“Just for a few hours,” Mycroft conceded, standing up. He clutched his desk, blinking rapidly.

“Mycroft?”

“Just a little light-headed.”

“Have you even eaten?” Greg groaned and wrapped an arm around his waist. “Alright. Come on.” He guided Mycroft to the door, reluctantly letting go of him when Mycroft strode out in front of him. When they were out of his employees’ eye-shot, Greg held him close again, helping him down the stairs.

Mycroft all but collapsed into the car, resting his head against the window as Greg fixed his seatbelt for him.

“Daft man,” Greg muttered, rubbing his thigh. “You need to look after yourself. Who’s going to be able to protect Sherlock without you, hey?”

Mycroft stared out of the window as Greg squeezed his knee. Mycroft went straight up to bed and Greg cut some some fruit. He served it with a pot of melted chocolate and sat beside Mycroft on the bed.

Mycroft stayed quiet the whole time he ate, before finally lying down and closing his eyes. Kissing his forehead, Greg left him there to make some proper food for dinner.

By the time it was ready though, Mycroft was up and showered. “I’m going back to work,” he said.

Greg bit his lip. “Okay,” he said, frowning. “Just take some of this pasta with you at least?”

Mycroft nodded, waiting for Greg to box it up. He touched Greg’s wrist as he handed the tupperware over. “I know it feels as though I’m shutting you out,” Mycroft said. “But work is the best place for me to be.”

“I know,” Greg said, watching him. “I know. It’s fine.” He sighed as he watched the car pull away, before texting John for more updates.

It was a week before Sherlock finally came back to full consciousness. By then, his fling with Janine made the front page of several newspapers. With Sherlock’s health improving, Mycroft was spending more time at home and finding a normal eating and sleeping pattern again.

Greg went to see Sherlock one night and to get some details of what had happened. He met John there. “Dunno how much sense you’ll get out of him,” John told him. “He’s drugged up, so he’s pretty much babbling.”

Greg followed him along the landing, fiddling with his new phone. He knew there was a video option on here somewhere.

“Oh, they won’t let you use that in here, you know,” John said.

“No, I’m not gonna use the phone. I just want to take a video.”

They both grinned at each other before entering the room. The bed was empty.

“Oh Jesus,” John muttered.

The blind was pulled up and folded in places, the window wide open. Greg rushed to the window, looking down at what he suspected was Sherlock’s route out. “How the hell did he manage that with a chest wound?” he asked, rolling his eyes. “Bloody hell.”

John shook his head. “Where would he go?”

“I dunno. I dunno.” They turned and jogged down the stairs. “Baker Street?” Greg asked.

“Already calling Mrs Hudson,” John said, bringing his phone to his ear. “Hi, Mrs Hudson, it’s John… yes, no, he got the flowers, thanks. Um… he’s not there by any chance is he? Yeah, if you could check…” They paused in the reception area as John waited for Mrs Hudson’s reply. “No? Okay. No, don’t worry he’s only gone and left the hospital. We’ll find him. Don’t worry. I’m sure he’s fine.”

Greg rolled his eyes and grabbed his phone, calling Mycroft. “Hi. It’s about Sherlock. He’s gone missing.”

“Of course he has,” Mycroft murmured. “Where are you looking?”

“He’s got three known bolt holes, Parliament Hill, Camden Lock and Dagmar Court.”

“I’ll send people to Camden Lock,” Mycroft said. “Perhaps check with Miss Hooper, she found Sherlock somewhere to go after his fall from St Bartholomew’s.”

Greg covered his phone speaker. “Check with Molly,” he hissed to John who nodded. “Anywhere else?” he asked.

“Come to the office. Coeur de Lion.”

Mycroft hung up and Greg turned to John. “I’m heading to Mycroft’s office and I’ll check Dagmar Court on the way. You do Camden Lock and check with Molly.”

John nodded. “Good idea. Meet you at Baker Street?”

“Yep,” Greg agreed, running towards his car while John went for the taxi rank.

He tried everywhere he could think of in Dagmar Court before driving towards Mayfair. He used his card to let himself into the building and went up to Mycroft’s office.

Mycroft hardly acknowledged his presence as he walked in. “I’ve been thinking,” Mycroft said. “Five known bolt holes. There’s the blind greenhouse in Kew Gardens and the leaning tomb in Hampstead Cemetery.” He looked up and dismissively waved his hand.

Greg raised his eyebrows. “Excuse me?”

“I’m very busy,” Mycroft said, returning to his computer.

Greg snorted. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered. “You ever do that to me again, Mycroft Holmes, and you’re not getting sex for a week.”

Mycroft frowned, but didn’t look up from his work. “I don’t believe you would last a week,” he said.

“Try me,” Greg said.

“I know how to seduce you,” Mycroft replied distractedly. “Now, go and find Sherlock. Let me know what happens.”

Greg laughed, rolling his eyes and leaving the office. He rang John. “No luck at Dagmar Court. Mycroft suggested the blind greenhouse in Kew Gardens and the leaning tomb in-”

“-Hampstead Cemetery, yeah, tried it,” John said. “Molly lives closer to Kew Gardens, I’ll ask her to give there a try.”

“Alright. Cheers, John. I’ll meet you at Baker Street.” Greg hung up and turned the radio up as he drove there, racking his brains to work out what the hell Sherlock was thinking. Not that he was ever able to work out what crazy things Sherlock was thinking.

He let himself into Baker Street, running up the stairs. Mrs Hudson smiled at him. “Tea?” she asked.

“No, but thanks.” He looked at John. “Any news from Molly?”

“Not yet, but she’s on her way there.”

“What the hell is he doing?” Greg asked with a frown.

“He knew who shot him,” John said. “The bullet wound was here.” He pointed to his chest. “So he was facing whoever it was.”

“So why not tell us?” Greg asked. Oh, crap, he knew why. “Because he’s tracking them down himself.”

“Or protecting them.”

“Protecting the shooter? Why?”

“Well, protecting someone, then. But why would he care? He’s Sherlock. Who would he bother protecting?” John sat down in his chair.

Greg wavered for a moment. He’d rather be out looking for him than sat here doing nothing. “Call me if you hear anything. Don’t hold out on me, John. Call me, okay?”

“Yeah,” John agreed. “Yeah, right.”

Greg glanced at Mrs Hudson. “Goodnight then,” he said, turning and walking back down the stairs. He tried Dagmar Court one more time and drove to Kew Gardens to pick Molly up.

“No luck,” she said, staring out of the window as they drove. “I don’t understand.”

“I don’t know,” Greg said, frowning. “I really don’t know.”

“So, are you doing better?” Molly asked. “You seemed a bit… a bit sad at the wedding.”

Greg glanced at her. “Did I?”

“Little bit,” she said. “I didn’t want to pry.”

“Me and Mycroft had a bit of an argument about something and he took off.”

“Oh no,” Molly said, turning in her seat a bit to look at him. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, we’re all sorted,” Greg said with a smile.

“Good. Good. Sherlock mentioned that you got a house?”

“Yep, we’re pretty much all moved in. Still some boxes hanging about. Mycroft has a lot more stuff than I realised. But yep, we’ve got a place in Kingston Upon Thames. We will invite you all over some time. Once Sherlock’s recovered. How’s Tom?”

“Mm. Not. It didn’t…”

“Shit, I’m sorry, Molly.”

“It’s okay. It wasn’t working.”

Greg nodded, licking his bottom lip. Molly and Tom had been engaged to get married and it had fallen through. He realised how lucky he was really. He may not be engaged, but he had a man who adored him, would do anything for him. It warmed his heart in an unexpected way as he fully appreciated what that meant.

He dropped Molly off at her flat and was returning to Mycroft’s office when his phone rang. He pulled into a supermarket car park so he could answer it. It was Mycroft.

“Lestrade.”

“Sherlock’s back in hospital,” Mycroft informed him. “The paramedics picked him up at Baker Street.”

“Baker Street? But I was at Baker Street a couple of hours ago.”

“He evidently returned there. I don’t know much at the moment, but you should go home and I will join you shortly.”

“Where are you going?”

“To see Sherlock. He and I need to have a conversation.”

Greg bit his lip but nodded. “Alright,” Greg agreed. “I’ll see you at home.”

When he got in, he ordered them both a takeaway. He sat eating it alone in the dining room, watching as the hours went by. He had been expecting Mycroft back ages ago, but he must still have been at the hospital. Though, perhaps Sherlock had told Mycroft who the shooter was. Greg could only hope.

Greg woke up when the bedroom door opened and light from the landing filtered through.

“Sorry to wake you,” Mycroft whispered, closing the door behind him.

“S’alright,” Greg murmured back, sitting up. “How’s Sherlock?”

“Aside from being foolish? He’s fine.”

“What did he do?” Greg asked.

Mycroft sat down on the side of the bed and touched Greg’s shoulder. “Truthfully? I don’t know how much to tell you.”

“Enough,” Greg said. “Tell me enough.”

“Speaking as my partner or as a policeman searching for a conviction?”

“Which do you want?” Greg asked.

“My partner. Because this isn’t one you can go after, for numerous reasons.”

Greg frowned. “Alright,” he said, a little skeptically.

“Mary Watson shot Sherlock.”

Greg blanched. “She did what?”

“Charles Magnussen had information on Mrs Watson’s rather… well, I would suggest an unsavoury past, but I don’t know the ins and outs of it. She was in his office to get the information from Magnussen, Sherlock broke in to steal information relating to Lady Smallwood, Mrs Watson shot him. Sherlock describes her gun shot as ‘surgery’ rather than ‘murder’.”

“What do you think?”

Mycroft hesitated before answering. “I’m inclined to agree. However, Doctor Watson is apparently moving back to Baker Street with immediate effect.”

“Jesus,” Greg muttered, shaking his head. “Mary? Mary shot Sherlock?”

“Apparently so.”

“Well, you said she was trouble,” Greg muttered. “Why aren’t we arresting her?”

“Sherlock won’t testify. I have my suspicions that Magnussen wouldn’t either.”

“This is… Mycroft, this is bloody ridiculous. John’s wife or not, she shot Sherlock for fuck’s sake!”

“I know.”

“Why aren’t you angry?”

“I was,” Mycroft said. “I shouted at him and got it out of my system and then let it go.”

“Why?”

“Because Sherlock asked me to. Politely asked. It was… a little surreal.”

Greg managed a laugh, reaching out and touching Mycroft’s arm. “Mary shot Sherlock, Sherlock’s not angry and John’s moving back to Baker Street.”

“Yes.”

“Right,” Greg muttered. “Right, yeah. Well that’s…”

“And Mary’s pregnant,” Mycroft added.

Greg snorted. “And everything else just gets more and more complicated.”

Mycroft sighed and lay down on his back beside him. “As if trying to clear up the mess of the nation wasn’t enough, Sherlock had to go and do something ridiculous. Again.”

Greg smiled, curling up to Mycroft’s side. “This whole situation is a mess.”

“I know. I know it is,” Mycroft sighed, stroking Greg’s hair.

 

* * *

 

_October, 2014_

And John really was back in Baker Street. Even though he had been missing from there for a long time, it felt normal to see him in his seat once again. Greg went with John to help Sherlock get back into the flat after being released from the hospital with strict orders for bed-rest. Sherlock muttered bitterly about it, of course he did.

But he seemed willing to go along with it on this occasion. Perhaps he’d seen hospitals too many times to push himself. Too many near-death experiences. Greg wasn’t sure.

Greg didn’t have much to say to John. There wasn’t a lot you could say to someone whose wife had shot their best friend.

All he did know, from brief chats over the next few weeks, was that John and Sherlock had finally talked about what Sherlock had gone through while taking down Moriarty’s network.

 

* * *

 

Greg and Mycroft went to Jane Starnes’ wedding in October. She and her fireman husband celebrated at a golf club in South London. It was a late wedding with a quick and simple service followed by a buffet and party.

Greg gave her a hug. “You look beautiful,” he told her. “Really nice.”

She beamed at him. “Thank you so much. It’s been such a lovely day, and nothing’s gone wrong yet so that’s good too.” She glanced over at her new husband. “Isn’t he yummy?” she grinned.

Greg laughed. “I approve.”

Jane beamed and turned to Mycroft, holding her hand out. “Jane,” she said.

“Mycroft Holmes,” he replied, shaking her hand.

“Lovely to meet you at long last,” she said with a pointed look at Greg.

Greg laughed. “Hey!”

Jane winked at him. “Greg, would you be a darling and allow me a few minutes with your boyfriend on the dance floor?”

Greg turned to Mycroft and shrugged. “Fine with me,” he said.

Jane giggled and took Mycroft’s hand, leading him out onto the floor. Greg watched with a smile, his ex-wife and new partner. A bit weird, he thought. They talked while they danced, though Greg couldn’t catch any of what they were saying. As the song ended, Mycroft kissed her hand and nodded to her.

She turned to Greg with a wide smile, pretending to fan herself with her hand before going to talk to the DJ.

“What did she say to you?” Greg asked.

“She said she approves,” Mycroft told him. “And that we should dance to the next song before we leave.”

Greg laughed. “She’s a nightmare,” he said with some affection. He stood up, accepting Mycroft’s hand and letting himself be led to the floor.

Greg looked up in the surprise as the song changed to Jeff Buckley’s Hallelujah. Greg stared at Mycroft, winding his arms around his neck. “Did you ask for this?” he asked.

Mycroft simply smiled, dropping his head onto Greg’s shoulder and allowing themselves some quiet moments swaying to the music.

More couples joined them on the floor, but Greg hardly noticed. He stroked Mycroft’s hair where it met his neck, humming a little in places.

Greg opened his eyes and saw Jane beaming up at her new husband as they danced together. Greg smiled at her when they caught each other’s eyes. She grinned back.

Greg let out a happy sigh, taking hold of one of Mycroft’s hands as they moved to the music. They held each other’s eyes and shared a gentle kiss. “Shall we go?” Greg whispered.

Mycroft nodded, and they held hands as they left the golf club together.

 

* * *

 

They had a meal at home for Mycroft’s 45th birthday and Greg was sure he’d never laughed so much in his life when they played a drinking game to the BBC’s Question Time, where politicians were quizzed by a studio audience.

Greg knew he’d lost by the state of his sore head the next day.

 

* * *

 

_November, 2014_

Mycroft was working on a new secret project and spent much of the month in the office. They still had three or four meals a week together.

Greg spent a few days with Rosa at his dad’s old farmhouse. She was now living with her son and some grandchildren and Greg couldn’t have been happier that the building was being filled with so much laughter.

He shared his 48th birthday with Mycroft on a romantic cruise along the Thames, complete with candles and dinner.

 

* * *

 

_December, 2014_

Greg had taken two Christmases off work in a row, and he wasn’t getting out of work this time. He had been invited for the Holmes Christmas Day extravaganza, but it was decided Greg would arrive on Boxing Day instead.

He sent Mycroft on his way with a small gift (a new pair of leather gloves) and his main gift (a shaving kit and a framed photograph of them from their Thames trip) would be ready to give to him on Boxing Day.

Greg spent much of Christmas Day on his feet unlike his usual days spent behind a desk. He finished his shift at 7pm, and went to Sam and Sally’s, where he also joined Piper, and her husband, and Leon.

Greg kissed Sally on the cheek. “What are you grinning at?” he asked, pulling back to look at her properly.

“Nothing,” she said with a coy smile, waving her hand around.

Greg laughed and grabbed her wrist, looking down at her hand. And the big diamond on her finger. “Sam Brockhurst!” Greg called out, and Sam peered around the kitchen door.

“What?” he asked, grinning.

“Get a bottle of champagne, will ya?” Greg walked over to him and gave him a quick hug, patting his back. “Congratulations.”

“How did it happen?” Piper asked, inspecting Sally’s ring.

Sally and Sam exchanged an amused look. “Before you hear this story, bear in mind I had the ring all ready to go at the right moment,” Sam said.

“But technically I proposed first,” Sally added, beginning to laugh. “I thought he was never going to ask!”

“To be fair, she did pick the right moment,” Sam added, beaming at her. “It was really nice and romantic and we were chatting in the kitchen. We had candles in the dining room and Bing Crosby on the CD player. Of course, I also had my hand up a turkey’s arse.”

Greg burst out laughing, wrapping his arm around Sally’s shoulders and giving her a tight squeeze. She smiled and cuddled him back.

“So, what about you then?” she asked. “When’s Mycroft putting a ring on your finger?”

“He’s not,” Greg said.

“No? Are you… are you two okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, we’re absolutely fine,” Greg said with a smile. “But we’ve discussed it and we’re not getting married.”

“You’re okay with that?” Sally asked.

“Not straight away, but I am now. It suits us, I think. We have everything we need with the house. Couldn’t be better.” And he truly meant that.

Sally smiled and let go of him as she took a glass of sparkling wine from Sam.

Greg took another glass and looked down at Piper’s young son. “Hello, mate,” he said, kneeling down in front of him. “How old is he now?” he asked.

“Two,” Piper said, smiling at her husband. Greg grinned and ruffled the kid’s hair. He glanced around the room, at the smiling, happy faces. Piper and her husband spent years trying for a baby until she successfully had IVF treatment. “It’s a shame Mycroft couldn’t come,” Piper added as Greg stood up.

“Yeah, he had an invite to the family Christmas do and I had to work this year.”

Greg shook hands with Leon and started talking to him about the Christmas he’d spent with his parents.

As he sat down on one of the sofas, toasting Sally and Sam’s announcement, he caught himself getting sentimental. The Christmas tree was up, The Pogues and Kirsty MacColl were playing on the CD, and he was surrounded by colleagues and friends. Some years ago, Mycroft had once noted Greg’s lack of friends. Acquaintances from university, football and work, but no one he would really count as a friend.

But through making up with Sally after Sherlock’s ‘death’, Sam’s perseverance to stay in touch while Greg was suspended… he appreciated how he had two people in his life he would support through anything.

“Greg?” Sally prompted.

Greg looked up at her. “Yeah?”

“Are you up for playing Charades?”

He groaned and finished his glass. “Top me up first!” he grinned and prepared himself for the games to begin.

He left Sally and Sam’s at 11.47pm, getting a cab back to his and Mycroft’s house. His suitcase was already packed and by the door, ready to leave the next day. He was about to run up the stairs for bed when he saw a line of light coming from one of the rooms.

He frowned, walking back down the stairs. He took a few cautious steps in, heading towards the living room. He opened the door further, and stared in. A slow grin spread over his face when he saw Mycroft sat in his chair. “Hey, you’re home earlier than I…” His face fell. Mycroft was staring into space, his hands holding tightly onto the chair’s arms. “Mycroft?” Greg asked. “What’s wrong?”

Greg walked further into the room. Mycroft didn’t even to appear to hear him. His eyes were glazed, barely acknowledging his presence, his face pale.

Greg walked over “Hey,” he murmured, touching Mycroft’s hand. He didn’t even look at him. Mycroft’s hands were still and cold.

“Oh God, Mycroft,” Greg urged, squeezing his hand. He touched his forehead. He was clammy, but his body was shaking. “Okay, love. Okay, okay, just…” Greg frowned. He was panicking, but he knew he had to stay calm.

He gave Mycroft’s hand a quick squeeze before running up the stairs to the bathroom. He pulled a blanket out of the airing cupboard and wrapped it around Mycroft’s shoulders.

He knelt down beside the fire. Mycroft usually lit the fire, Greg had no idea how he was supposed to… ah. That did it.

He returned to Mycroft’s side, pulling the blanket tighter around him. Greg’s heart was racing. He was terrified, pretending to stay calm but all the while, Mycroft’s glazed eyes were scaring the hell out of him.

He knelt down at Mycroft’s feet, taking hold of his hands and rubbing them between his own to warm him up. “There we go,” Greg said. “Feels good to be a bit warmer, doesn’t it? Bloody freezing out.”

He looked up at Mycroft’s face. “Mycroft. Do I need to ring an ambulance?”

Mycroft’s head shook a silent ‘no’ and Greg was relieved he was at least acknowledging him. Greg kissed his knuckles. “Okay,” Greg said, frowning. “I’m just gonna… I’m just going to sit right here. And then if you can tell me anything at all, or if you need anything, then you just say so and I’ll sort it.”

Greg bit his lip, shuffling to get more comfortable on the floor. He held Mycroft’s hands, kissing his fingers and the palms of his hands. Mycroft was still staring at the wall.

Greg had no idea how long he sat there. He started to lose track long after his arse went numb and he had worn out so many positions to sit in that he was no longer comfortable in any of them.

“Greg.” Mycroft’s voice was so quiet Greg hardly heard it. He turned around so he could kneel in front of him, squeezing his knees.

“Hey,” Greg replied, looking up at him. “Hey, welcome back.”

“It’s my fault,” Mycroft said as he pressed his lips together.

“Mycroft what happened?”

“Sherlock killed Charles Magnussen. In front of MI5 agents. I couldn’t stop it.” Mycroft shook his head, fear in his eyes. “I couldn’t stop him.”

Greg stared at him. Sherlock. Oh fucking Sherlock. He forced himself to stay calm and focus only on Mycroft.

“I was there… just…” Mycroft’s attention turned back to the wall and Greg reached up to touch his face.

Shock. Mycroft was in shock. Greg was suddenly relived he’d got the blanket and the fire, because he was sure that was the right thing to do. But he had no idea how to deal with Mycroft like this.

Greg squeezed his hands. “You don’t need to say anything else if you can’t,” he said. “Why don’t you come up to bed with me, lie down with me and we’ll get you off to sleep?”

“I can’t. It’s my fault, Greg.”

“No, no, you are not responsible for what Sherlock does.”

“He took my laptop. As I knew he would. Magnussen was the target, for possessing stolen national security information. We were going to end it. End him. And Sherlock shot him. It’s my fault.” Mycroft’s eyes flicked across the room. “I failed to protect him,” he added with a whisper.

Greg swallowed. He didn’t know what to say to that, not without the whole story. “Come to bed, love,” he said instead.

Mycroft nodded a little, and Greg stood up, holding an arm out to help him up. He pulled the blanket tighter around Mycroft’s shoulders, slowly leading him out of the living room and up the stairs. Mycroft sat silent on the edge of the bed as Greg undressed him, before lying down under the covers with the blanket still around his shoulders.

Greg kissed his forehead. “Stay here, I’ll turn the fire off.”

He ran downstairs and put it out. He checked his phone but he didn’t have any messages. He took a deep breath. Now was not the time to text Sherlock, not when he was this angry. Angrier with him than he had ever been.

Greg went back to the bedroom, quickly stripping his clothes off and sliding under the covers with Mycroft. He pulled him towards him, stroking his back in slow circles. Greg stayed awake for the next hour, holding Mycroft close until he fell asleep.

When he was finally sure he’d drifted off, Greg closed his eyes and went to sleep too.

Greg woke up when Mycroft moved. He was sat up, clutching the covers. Greg sat up, rubbing his shoulders. “Love?” he whispered.

“I don’t know what to do,” Mycroft replied, his voice soft and lost.

Greg swallowed, hating seeing him like this. Broken. “You’ll figure it out,” Greg told him. “You always do.”

“I can’t save him this time. I weighed it up. I can’t help him. He killed a man, Greg. He shot him dead, in the centre of his forehead in front of me. John. MI5. I can’t hide that. I can’t save him.”

Greg nodded, silently agreeing. There was nothing he could say which could comfort him at all. He kissed Mycroft’s shoulder.

“My whole life. Everything I’ve done came back to him. ‘Protect him’. That’s what my parents asked, and I tried. How many times did I fail, Greg?”

“Never,” Greg told him.

“So many times. The drugs, the Fall, Mary. I tried and I failed.”

“No.”

“The most important job I’ve ever had, and I always, always let him down.”

“Mycroft,” Greg whispered. “Love, he’s a force of nature. He does what he wants. You can’t always stop him. You can’t always save him.”

“Greg.”

“Yeah?”

“What if everything is crumbling? What if Moran’s tsunamis are coming.” Mycroft’s voice began to shake. “I can’t see how this ends. I don’t know how this ends.”

“I don’t know,” Greg said quietly, biting his lip. “I don’t know, I’m sorry. I wish I did. I wish I could say something, but you know I can’t. I won’t lie to you. But things will look better tomorrow.”

“Greg, I’m terrified.”

Greg closed his eyes. So am I, he thought. Petrified. And that terror was all the greater because Mycroft was so scared too. “What do you need?” Greg asked quietly, stroking his shoulders.

“When the waves come… I want to be here with you.”

Greg felt his heart break. He swallowed back the threatening tears and pulled Mycroft into his arms. “I’m always here,” he choked out, stroking his hair. “Always, always, always. No matter what, you have me.”

Mycroft never cried. He never shed a tear. But he let Greg hold him as they watched the sun come up from behind the curtains.

 

* * *

 

The next day after eating breakfast, Mycroft turned to him. “I’m going to do some work. I need to work out how we sort this out,” he said.

Greg nodded. “Course. I’ll just be around the house.”

“Will you sit with me?”

Greg pulled him close and kissed his head. “Course I will. Let me grab a book and I’ll be right with you.”

He joined Mycroft in his office, sitting on the sofa while Mycroft sent emails and carried out phone calls. Mycroft stopped for a moment.

“Greg?”

Greg looked up from his book. “Yes?”

“I need to tell you what happened.”

“Alright,” he said, sitting up.

“Sherlock went after Magnussen. He drugged everyone in the house with the punch. I didn’t drink it.”

Greg frowned at him. “You knew?”

“I knew. Sherlock thinks he’s clever, but he can’t hide anything from me. He stole my laptop, which he believed contained secrets relating to national security. It didn’t. Two people spent months manufacturing lies. I counted on him taking it to Magnussen, who believed it contained those secrets. I had a plan. MI5 would find him with the laptop, and far more information hidden inside Magnussen’s vaults. And one way or another, he would be gone. But the information in the vaults did not exist. And Sherlock knew I would have Magnussen killed, and then the vaults wouldn’t exist and my position was at risk. So he killed him. He did it for John and Mary. He did it for me. But I could have saved my career whatever had happened. But I can’t save Sherlock. Not this time.”

“Will he go to jail?”

“I need to convince Government ministers to send him to Eastern Europe on behalf of MI6.”

“And then what?” Greg asked.

Mycroft stared at his computer. “I don’t deserve a man as good as you, Greg,” he said quietly. “But I’m so glad for you every day.”

Greg nodded silently. “You deserve everything good. I promise.”

Mycroft returned to his laptop and Greg turned a page in his book.

 

* * *

 

_January, 2015_

Sherlock was going to Eastern Europe. And that was it. Goodbye, Sherlock Holmes, Greg didn’t know when or if he would return. He was unlikely to, that Greg knew. He had around six months to live, Mycroft had predicted, his voice cold, his eyes full of sorrow.

Sherlock was under armed guard at Baker Street when Greg arrived the night before Sherlock was due to depart. He sat down on the sofa and they stared at each other for a long minute.

“Go on, Lestrade,” Sherlock said from his usual chair. “Say it.”

“Say what?”

“How disappointed you are.”

Greg sighed. “I am,” he said. “I always said you were capable of murder. Never really thought you’d do it. I’ve been thinking about it a lot these last days, because Mycroft’s walking around like a fucking zombie.” He swallowed and rubbed his face. “Sherlock. I don’t do conversations like this. And neither do you.”

“No,” Sherlock agreed.

“So can we just pretend you’re gonna come home in six months and shake on it?”

Sherlock nodded, standing up. “I accept that,” he said.

Greg rose from his seat. “Sherlock. You were an idiot when I met you. Bloody drug-addicted prat. And you’re still a prat.”

Sherlock laughed, nodding.

“Proud of you,” Greg whispered. “I’m a bit pissed off right now, I won’t lie. But I know how far you’ve come. I know what you’ve gone through. And in case Mycroft doesn’t say it or show it, I think deep down he is too.” Greg held his hand out. “So I’ll see you in six months.”

Sherlock nodded and took his hand. “Thank you, Lestrade,” he said, holding Greg’s eyes. “For everything you’ve done.”

Greg nodded, his chest tight as they shook hands. Greg took a deep breath. “See you around then,” he murmured, letting go of his hand before turning for the door.

“Greg.”

Greg frowned for a second. Greg. Not Graham or George or Gavin? He bit the comment back and turned to face Sherlock. “Yeah?” he asked.

“Look after my brother,” Sherlock said, his eyes filled with concern.

“You have my word,” Greg whispered, taking one last look at Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, before turning back and jogging down the stairs. And God it hurt, losing him all over again. Only this death would take months before it came and Greg knew Mycroft would never recover from it. Greg was sure he would never recover from it.

Sherlock was never coming home to London, and it hurt. It hurt so much. Was it worse, losing someone and finding them again only to realise they’d be gone all over again? And yes, maybe it was. Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, drug addict and prat and irritating idiot and genius Sherlock Holmes was the reason Greg had found the love of his life.

He got into the car and told the driver not to move for a few minutes. He sat and stared at the door for 221 Baker Street. He touched the glass of the car’s window, and silently whispered ‘goodbye, Sherlock’.

He nodded to the driver, and closed his eyes as he was driven to work.

 

* * *

 

 

The day came all too soon. Mycroft and Greg said very few words to each other besides asking what to have for breakfast and what time they would each be leaving. They sat in silence at the dining room table, eating croissants and drinking coffee and tea.

Greg reached over and took Mycroft’s hand in his own. “You did the very best you could,” Greg said softly. “That’s what matters.”

“Thank you,” Mycroft said, before standing up. “I’ll call when I’m home. What are you doing?”

“Going to go to the pub to watch some football. I need something to take my mind off it all.”

Mycroft nodded, leaning down to kiss him. “Is there anything you want me to say to Sherlock for you?” he asked.

“No,” Greg said. “No, I think we covered everything there was to say. He knows.”

Mycroft squeezed his shoulder and Greg turned to kiss his fingers before Mycroft headed for the front door. Greg dropped his face into his hands and wondered how on earth this building was full of strength and support - while outside, everything else was crumbling.

 

* * *

 

He stood up at the bar drinking a pint. He wasn’t watching a game he particularly cared about. Arsenal would be on later. He sipped his beer and looked up. The ball was shot over the goal.

“Oh, he missed it!” the commentator exclaimed.

Greg was hardly listening, wondering how John and Mycroft and Sherlock were getting on. Every time he thought about it, he felt like his insides were being ripped apart. He looked up as he started to notice the static from the television.

“Oi! What’s up with the telly?” a customer asked. “There’s something wrong with the telly, mate!”

“Give it a whack then!” another suggested.

Greg looked at the screen, just as it began to clear. There was a silhouette there, head and shoulders of a man. Greg stared at it.

“Who’s that?” a customer asked.

Greg’s body froze. Moriarty. That was Moriarty’s fucking face.

“Did you miss me?” the high pitched voice asked. “Did you miss me? Did you miss me?”

The bar manager changed the channel. “It’s on everything,” he said, flicking through.

Greg grabbed his phone, calling for Mycroft.

“Hello?” Mycroft asked.

“It’s Moriarty. There’s… his face is on every TV channel.”

“What?” Mycroft asked. “But that’s not possible. That is simply not possible.”

Greg shook his head. “I know. Just telling you what I can see right now.”

“Greg, I have another call coming through. Get home. Just get the car and go home.”

“What about you?” Greg asked.

“I’ll be there when I can.”

“Mycroft…” Greg swallowed. Tsunamis. Moran’s bloody tsunami comment was swimming through his head. “I love you,” he said, holding the phone tightly in his hand.

“And I, you,” Mycroft told him. “I’m sure it’s all perfectly safe but please, just go home.”

“Already on my way,” Greg said, hanging up the phone and calling for one of Mycroft’s drivers. He slid in the car, his heart racing. This wasn’t good. Not good. Coincidence, perhaps, the day Sherlock was going away.

Moriarty was dead. They knew he was dead. He had to be dead.

Twenty-five minutes later and the car pulled onto the long driveway. Greg walked into Cedar Court, giving the cats a quick stroke. He turned the television on. Moriarty was still on a loop and he turned it off, letting out an aggravated yell. He didn’t know what else to do.

Sherlock was gone - a dead man walking. Moriarty was on the screens across the country. Mycroft was never going to recover from Sherlock’s death. Moran promised tsunamis. Greg felt like they were already drowning.

He wandered up to his and Mycroft’s bedroom and stood at the window, staring out into the back garden. He watched as Mulder ran down the path, Scully not far behind. He didn’t know how long he stood there. Just staring out at bare trees and mud. The flowers would start sprouting in a few months, but Greg wasn’t even sure anymore if he’d be there to see it.

He checked his phone. Nothing from Mycroft yet.

He stood. And he waited.

He turned his head and let out a relived sigh as Mycroft walked in through the bedroom door, taking his coat off and putting it down onto the bed.

“Sherlock’s coming home,” he murmured, walking over to Greg and wrapping his arms around his waist from behind. “So that’s one less problem to worry about.”

Greg held onto his hands. “Cross Sherlock off the list and add Moriarty then.”

“Quite,” Mycroft agreed, stroking his fingers.

“Weird week,” Greg said, relaxing a little. “Really weird week.”

“Yes, it rather has been.”

“Mmm. Well. Let’s hope it starts looking up soon, yeah?”

Greg watched their reflections in the window as Mycroft kissed the side of his neck. Greg managed a smile.

“Greg, I’ve made a number of mistakes in the past week. But I realise, it is a new year, a time for new starts.”

Greg shook his head. “You didn’t mess up, Mycroft. Things just happened.”

“Nonetheless, I told you something a few months ago. And I realised just the other day that I was mistaken.”

Greg frowned and looked at him. “What did you say?”

“I said I did not need to give you a ring to prove my loyalty to you. And I stand by that. I still don't believe that we should get married. But the fact of the matter is, sometimes when the world roars below, a physical symbol is enough to remind you that you are loved. Wanted. Needed.”

Greg frowned a bit and turned in his arms. Mycroft reached into his jacket pocket and took out a small blue box.

“I was given my grandfather’s ring when I was 18 years old,” Mycroft murmured. “It has meant a lot to me over these years. It was a sign of his love and affection for his partner. And it would be my honour if you would wear it.” Mycroft opened the box. Greg stared down at the gold ring. “I’ve taken the liberty of having it resized,” Mycroft added.

“That’s your grandfather’s ring,” Greg murmured, glancing at Mycroft’s bare hand. “His ring… you…”

“It is.”

“Jesus. God, Mycroft. Are you serious? You want me to wear this?”

“What do you think?” Mycroft asked.

Greg laughed and rubbed his face. “Yeah,” he said. “Well, if you’ve already gone and had it resized…” he laughed, staring at the ring. Mycroft smiled and reached for Greg’s left hand. “No, wait,” Greg said. Mycroft’s smile began to fade. “The right hand,” Greg said, holding it out. “The same finger you had yours on.”

“Oh.” Mycroft smiled again. He took the ring out of the box and gazed at Greg’s face as he slid it on.

Greg stared down at it, getting used to the weight against his finger. It fit perfectly. “This is… thank you,” he whispered.

Mycroft nodded. “Thank you,” he said, holding Greg’s hand.

“What about you?” Greg asked. “Does you finger feel a bit… naked now?”

“I thought perhaps we could find a ring for me together,” Mycroft said.

“Good idea,” Greg agreed. He entwined their fingers together, holding his eyes.

Mycroft smiled and kissed him, full of love and tenderness. He took hold of Greg’s hands. He grasped them firmly. They held each other’s eyes, kissed again.

“I suppose I should start making some lunch,” Mycroft said.

Greg nodded. “I’ll join you.”

Mycroft squeezed his hands, let go, and then he wordlessly turned to walk out of the bedroom. Greg followed, letting Mycroft lead them back out onto the landing. He glanced at the wall and the paintings and prints they had chosen together. He stopped and stared at one of them, a painting Sam had done of the cats sat in Crusader House.

Mycroft turned around to look at him then, a few steps away from Greg, his brows furrowed, an inquisitive smile on his face. Greg just shrugged and smiled back, gazing back at him. Mycroft Holmes. Who’d have thought, nine years on from their first kiss, and it would still be all about Mycroft bloody Holmes? Mycroft’s smile slowly grew as they continued to stare at each other. Gentle and loving, then spreading into nothing but sheer happiness, his eyes sparkling.

All Greg could do was smile back, knowing he had finally found home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was it. The final chapter. I started this thing in January and I can’t believe it’s over. This was supposed to be 50,000 words long. I thought it would be nice if it ever reached 100,000. That it ended up being 400,000+ has been a shock. 
> 
> There are so many thank yous I want to give, and I think I’ll do them all individually if no one minds. The comments and messages I have received have been nothing short of overwhelming. I never expected many people to read this. I thought if three or four people read it as a WIP that would be cool. The fact that so many people have read it and stuck with me the whole time - and commented so religiously on every chapter - has amazed me.
> 
> The truth is, I started writing this fic when I felt the lowest I have ever felt. I started writing because there was nothing else that was working for me. I wrote because it gave me something to look forward to on those dark, lonely winter evenings. 
> 
> So, question of a sequel:  
> There MAY be one when the new series is finally released. But it comes under a VERY specific set of circumstances. Those being, neither Greg or Mycroft are shown to be in a lasting relationship with anyone else, that neither of them die and that nothing in canon totally ruins something in this fic (i.e. one of them turn out to be evil or something). A fic like this - written before all of canon has played out - has its place in time, and even if it becomes AU, I like to think it fits nicely into its space between series three and four and while we wait eagerly to see what season four may bring. 
> 
> In terms of extra scenes/one shots I am planning:  
> * A Sally Donovan special, set in the Human Remains ‘universe’, charting her romances from evil Edmund Bullock, through Anderson and others, to finally Sam Brockhurst. Because exploring her character and motives seems like a lotta fun to me.  
> * An assortment of Mycroft POV fics. There are some very specific scenes I really want to write from his POV, because I know exactly what he was thinking and feeling in them and I want to share them with you all. It remains to be seen whether these will be rewritten separately or as a compelete re-write of Human Remains from Mycroft’s POV with all the scenes you didn’t see before because Greg wasn’t there. I think I need a few months away from this until I make my mind up!  
> * And finally, some explorations of Mycroft’s family life. I have some ideas involving his grandparents and also his previous relationships. Again, whether these end up being stand-alone pieces or fit into a Mycroft-centric Human Remains plot remains to be decided. Perhaps you would like to share your views on that with me? 
> 
> I also have some other Mystrade fics in the pipeline, some which are easily enough written, others which require a bit more planning. 
> 
> And on another note, there is also some Sherstrade in the works, because if Greg’s happy, then I am a happy bunny too!
> 
> I will be returning to this fic in the next month, doing some cleaning up and removing typos, but for the most part - this adventure has finished. 
> 
> So - thanks again, to all those who read and commented and shared. I cannot put into words how much your comments and support and kudos has meant to me. When I say this fic has turned my life around, it sounds ridiculous. Both unfortunately and fortunately, it’s very much the truth. 
> 
> See you all around AO3 and Tumblr (I’m there as Saziikins) very soon! As always, sailing the good ship Mystrade, umbrellas at the ready. Mucho love, hugs and hearts!


End file.
